Bare Bones
by koyoote
Summary: If you have to wake up in the zombie apocalypse, there's something you might not know could be an advantage. No memory. Without the thoughts of loved ones to consume him, Rick Grimes is firstly concerned with the practicalities of his new life. Of course he's curious about who he was! It just...doesn't seem that important when the dead are walking around? He'll figure it out later.
1. D-YS G-N- BY-

There's a man that talks to him. It happens in starts and stutters. He has dark hair, a handsome face, and worried dark eyes. Sometimes there's other movement out of the corners of his vision, but no face appears so often as the man. He's familiar, but not. Like a friend from childhood that's grown up the next town over, but still recognizable after so long.

Then there's darkness. And a sudden awareness making him gasp-and then choke. God, his mouth is so _dry_. He blinks hard against the bright tiles until his eyes adjust and realizes there's not actually much light coming through the blinds on the far window. Even his eyes feel dry, and sensitive against his eyelids. His hands tremble against the scratchy sheets; his head is killing him. With a groan, the now awakened man realizes he must be very dehydrated.

Pushing through the pain, breathing through his nose to save his throat, he takes in more about the room he's in. There's the flowers the concerned man showed him, dry as a bone. An empty fluids bag on an IV stand, the other machinery around him, makes him realize he must be in a hospital room. That makes sense. What doesn't is how quiet everything is.

Hospitals are noisy. Humming with people, electricity and the beeps of heart rate monitors. This is dead silence. He almost doesn't want to break it. But he can barely move.

"Hello?" he calls out hoarsely, then listens hard. Nothing. He tries again, "Hey!" His voice cracks and throat feels like it does the same, sending him into a coughing fit. When it subsides with steady breathes, he's pained, exhausted, and curled on his side. There's a burning soreness under his left shoulder that makes him think it was why he was in the hospital. And still just silence around him.

Resigned to the fact that he's alone, the thinly clad man pushes himself upright and gets used to his disorientation before setting his legs over the bed. They tremble so badly, he can feel it shake up his spine. He prays his muscles haven't totally atrophied. Gritting his teeth, he presses his feet to the floor to put a little weight on them. At first his knees won't bend, his legs won't lift him without severe effort, and he feels about 80 years old. He's panting hard and barely hunched forward before he can't take it anymore and falls back onto the bed, letting gravity take him horizontal across it. His whole body trembles with his quickened heart and he accepts that his muscles have at least atrophied somewhat. He can practically feel the blood rush to his limbs and they tingle all over.

When he's not panting anymore, he remembers the thin IV bag next to his bed from the lingering burn in the back of his right hand. "Shit," he breathes and looks down his body, barely able to lift his head through the throbbing pain. The needle is taped to his skin, but at least it's not directly into a vein. With trembling digits, he carefully tugs the needle out and puts pressure on the tiny hole. There's still general pain, but he realizes he can feel his limbs a little better, can feel every digit on his feet again.

Sighing, the stubborn man tries again, using his elbows to lift himself up despite the pain on his left side. If he wants to live, he'll have to make it to water. Eyeing the bathroom door across the room, he prays to any entity out there that despite the power being out the water pressure will still work. It takes an unpardonably long time to shuffle along the floor, using his bed as a support until he has to push himself upright and across the empty space ahead. He practically falls against the doorframe, digging his nails in to stop his momentum. Breathing hard again, thankfully the sink is barely a few feet from the door and he lets gravity assist him there too. His knees are weak and barely lock, forcing himself to bend over the porcelain.

The knobs turn easily though, and within a second the water pours clearly into the sink. If he weren't so dehydrated, he could cry with relief. Head hanging next to the faucet, he lets his curled hair soak, water dripping down his temple and cheek before he tilts his head and drinks. If he didn't have to breath so damn much he feels like he'd get more down. As it is, he still drinks too fast. His stomach revolts, making him hiccup, gag, and finally vomit the life-giving resource. With a frustrated sob, he stills his spine, not letting his body fall to the ground like it wants. His arms feel like iron the way they cling to the sides of the dusty surface. And he tries again, drinking slower and carefully breathing through any nausea that surfaces.

When he can feel his stomach start to slosh uncomfortably, he lets his head hang below the faucet until the cool water runs across the back of his neck and soaks his entire head. His body is still tired and pained, but the shaking has let off to occasional shivers. His head is but a dull ache rather than a roar and he can finally think clearly.

Must be why he suddenly realizes he doesn't even know his own name.

There's surprisingly little excitement around the thought. A mild curiosity maybe, he's not overly concerned. And why should he be, he remembers suddenly, there's a medical file at the end of his bed. That will tell him not only his name, but his address, what to do for his health, _everything_. It's quite convenient.

Turning off the water, not knowing how long it would truly last, he makes himself get upright by degrees. Sharp blue eyes study the face in the mirror as he does so. There's quite a bit of stubble to his cheeks, but not a full on beard. Maybe a little less than a week's growth. He doesn't know if they shaved patients everyday, but he had to of woken not long after the hospital shut down. Wet, his hair is a few inches in length and already curling wildly. He shakily drives his fingers through it until it slicks back the opposite way down his skull and out of his vision. Blinking down at his nails, he finds them a little long but clean. He didn't accumulate much dust in the time he was abandoned, and didn't have enough fluid in his body to soil himself, thankfully. Overall, he might be handsome if he didn't look like he was about to keel over. But he doesn't even recognize the face in the mirror. Time for the file.

It's less of a journey than the last time, but he still sits at the foot of the bed, unable to stay standing much longer. There's a name right at the top in bold: "Richard Grimes." It sounds too long in his mouth. He wonders if he's a Rich or Rick instead, and tries them both out. He likes "Rick Grimes" so much he says it twice, getting a feel for the middle class Southern accent on his tongue. Yes, that sounds right. His birthdate is there too, but until he finds the incident date that doesn't mean much to him. And he's _married_. Well.

Brows furrowing in confusion, he looks at his left ring finger and finds a tan line. He'd have noticed dropping a ring. Thumbing the skin, he finally brushes it off for the moment. His address and phone number are there, so he carefully pulls off the first page and folds it. But he has no pockets. Damn. New clothes make his mental agenda. Though before he sets aside the paperwork, he scans for his history and medications. Apparently he'd been in a coma, medically induced at first and then just didn't wake up. The gunshot to the lower shoulder explains the pain. Last update puts his sleeping beauty routine at just over a month long since the incident. That makes him… 38, he thinks? He's too tired to care about the math. He was on minimal medication it looks like: an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory, lots of fluids, mild pain reliever. Yeah, that sounds good about now.

Tossing the file haphazardly, the newly dubbed Rick tries his feet again. He probably needs to stretch, and definitely needs to eat, but for now he can handle the pain and the shakes. Instinct makes him cautious as he slowly opens the hall door. It's much darker through there, without lights or windows, but not impossible. There's a gurney blocking him in, the whole place seems to be in a general state of decay, while what looks like blood is puddled on the floor and sprayed across the walls. The air is stale, humid with rot and unmoving.

Lips setting tight, the grim-faced man pushes the bed aside and scans the area. There's bodies down the far left corridor, a little more light from each direction, and a nurses station to his right. He shuffles there first. It's mostly debris, papers a riot across the desk, computers cold and dead, a couple sets of keys he knows not what for hanging up. If he had pockets, he'd take them just in case. There's a large black purse on it's side that takes only a few steps to reach. Checking behind him in paranoia, Rick noisily upends the bag. There's a ladies wallet, feminine products, receipts, keys, a cell phone, and… a granola bar. Score.

Rick rips open the wrapping and eats despite the grimace on his face. Those things always tasted like crap to him, he thinks, despite not remembering his own past. Eyeing the Apple device, he half-heartedly tries the button and is surprised to find it only _almost_ dead. But it's useless anyway. It's passcode locked.

With a sigh, the man wavers on with his address and granola, eating as slowly as he can stomach to hopefully avoid vomiting again. Around the nurses station there's either double doors or the entrance to the stairs. The minimalistic grey map on the wall tells him the elevators are behind him, but a small pharmacy is opposite the stairs.

Remembering his need for medication, Rick continues on and peeks through the windows of the doors. There's even more blood here, and his throat feels dry as he swallows thickly. A woman's body is in the center of the hall. She looks fucking pulled apart. Shivers not related to his atrophied muscles shake down his spine. Half the granola bar is left, but he can't finish it with this in his face. Ever so slowly, he slides through the door and picks the side with the most distance from the body. A glance he can't resist tells him she was shot in the head, maybe a mercy killing, he thinks. Whatever happened to this hospital, Rick can't believe it was human. It certainly doesn't scream terrorist, or even serial killers. If anything, the damage looks animalistic in nature. What the hell happened while he slept? An alien invasion?

Light alternates minimally across the hall, mostly coming from patient rooms' windows, but he can glimpse the pharmacy ahead. Another door gives him pause though. Employee locker room. Huh. He glances down at his undone shirt and boxers, and decides to give it a shot. The door opens easily at least, and from a glance he can see six locker doors hanging open. One's empty, three are women's, but he has luck with the other two, and another's got an unlocked combination hanging from it. From the selection, Rick manages to pull out jeans a bit too big, a belt to correct that, and a shirt that is a little tight, but fits. No socks, but a ragged pair of sneakers are found under a bench.

Before he can dress though, he spies the shower room. It's too good to pass up. He doesn't know what the damage is in his part of the country, doesn't know where the threats are locally, but so far this hospital is dead silent, and unpicked over by looters. The water's cold but without air conditioning the building is pretty warm, and he stands with the curtain open so he can see anyone coming in. All goes well, and he's feeling a little better when he finally gets out and gets dressed. Grimes doesn't bother wrapping his wound; the skin has long healed from what he can see, it's the muscles that pain him. He grabs a small shoulder bag, the ibuprofen from a woman's locker to take two while he finishes the stale snack bar, and finds nothing worthwhile to collect before heading towards the pharmacy again.

It's small, obviously meant for staff filling perscriptions, but the door was left partially open, and nothing is behind glass cases, all in easy access bottles and clearly labeled print. Rick takes a moment to think. He'll need his own medicines of course, but who knows what it's like outside those walls. Was the water really clean or would it make him sick? There's a whole multitude of questions he doesn't even know to ask, with answers he wouldn't understand.

He takes what he recognizes. Mild to severe pain relievers, anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxers, looks at the insulin but decides against it. He doesn't particularly want to carry needles around and the glass bottles were no longer refrigerated anyway, so he wasn't sure they were even viable. He doesn't know much about antipsychotics either and hopes that doesn't come back to bite him. The tired man grabs some of the best antibiotics he can locate, pops a pill from a bottle he remembered named on his medical sheet, and the bag is stuffed full. If he finds anymore food, he'll have to find another bag.

Satisfied with the haul, Rick shoulders the light burden and backtracks for the stairs. There's an itch of impatience under his skin, a desire to know what happened that makes him both paranoid and uncomfortable, but his exhaustion keeps him from moving too quickly. Despite the carnage, the utter silence is almost peaceful and Rick has to distract himself from locking up a room to go back to bed again. He'd probably wake up at night and _that_ would be nerve-wracking enough.

Speaking of night, the door to the stairwell reveals a pitch black, echoing space ahead of him… He probably should've anticipated that. The uncirculated air is hot, sickly sweet with rot. Normally he's not afraid of the dark, but... Rick backtracks to the woman's abandoned purse and grabs the phone. It won't last long, but he's only on the second floor. Holding the lock screen up to the dark, the amnesiac thinks the space is untouched at the moment.

There's no blood on the walls or floors, which is something of a relief. It's slow going, edging down the stairs on his shaky legs and continuous tapping of the 'home' button to keep the light source. He wants to, but doesn't try the code. There's a vague memory of how cell phones work, and he's pretty sure it'd be useful to open it, but it would also vibrate to every wrong code, wasting energy.

The phone flashes a barely red power cell just as Grimes reaches the first floor door, and dies as he steps through it. Thank God. The exertion, the need for balance along the precarious steps, have made him even more exhausted than before and he gratefully takes a break. Seated and leaning against the wall, he sets down the dead cell and scans his surroundings. There's not much. Dim light, a grey map, and another T-shaped hall. Doors line the way, and a fireman's ax container lies broken and empty nearby. Too bad, he could probably use a weapon even if he couldn't swing it with any force.

A nearby bathroom sign gets him on his feet again. It's a women's room but completely empty, and Rick cares little about it while he takes another long drink from the sink then relieves himself. Following the simple map, the middle-aged man swings a right for the cafeteria only to find a strange warning. He squints. ' _DONT DEAD; OPEN INSIDE_ '? His brain quickly rearranges it to make sense. Obviously the vandalizers meant 'don't open; dead inside', though that's kind of a dumb message. Rick's seen several dead already. Were they diseased? He hasn't touched them at least. And if the pathogen were airborne surely he'd be dead in his hospital bed?

Shuffling slowly closer, the cautious man finally hears a vague sound. Voices? It doesn't sound like words. More like groans, or maybe gurgles. Were there people actively sick inside? But why use the cafeteria when they had a whole hospital?...

He doesn't like it. The situation follows no logic he can tell, and he finds himself creeping closer despite his pinging danger sense. There's a board through the handles with a sturdy chain and padlock. Whatever was in there, wasn't getting out. When he's a yard from the double doors, the noise picks up. What the hell was _in there?_

To his disbelief, the doors shift, move as much as they are able and grey hands begin to reach through. The gurgles increase to growls, and he can hear the distinct sound of clacking teeth. Rick suddenly remembers the woman upstairs. _Devoured_. Swallowing down his nausea, he edges closer to peer into the dark crack. The beings seem tall, human shaped probably. Frowning in disgust, he studies their hands as the noise gets even louder. The board and chains hold easily. Several of the nails on various hands are dead and black with blood. There's a couple missing flesh from the digits, pearl white bone shining through.

Swallowing down bile, Rick clasps his mouth and suddenly decides to move on. Were those dead _people?_ He may not remember himself, but he'd certainly remember if that was the norm. Thinking about fiction, the man can list several things that don't exist like vampires or magic. If the dead are walking around _eating people_ was he even still awake? Had he died and gone to Hell for being a sinner? Or was this a coma dream?

The pain in his body certainly didn't feel like a dream. The dehydration had been pretty realistic, he thinks and scans the outer hospital through another small window. The sun was bright ahead, took some getting used to, but there's green land in the distance. Just above the green he could spy the rotary blades of a helicopter, with rows of white bags on the ground nearby. He could tell as soon as he opened the door though, that they were actually bodies. Sheet-wrapped bodies, some of them hastily done. All of them with dried blood across the skull. No coincidences there.

There were dead up and walking. And there were dead on the ground. Rick tilted his head and analyzed as well as his exhaustion would allow. He hadn't seen the skulls of the beings in the cafeteria, but he supposed it was likely they were intact. He thought basic motor function and desires like hunger were controlled in the base of the brain. Grimes walked on, finally reaching the border of cement around the asphalt. The grass hill was steep, but he liked the promise of a helicopter. What he saw at the top was disheartening. Here the military dead were left unattended, suggesting they were overrun, most likely. He frowns hard at the flesh torn off of a man's forearm, the likely friendly fire headshot, and then notices his nearby pistol.

In a movment of pure instinct, Rick crouches to pick it up, flicks the safety, checks the ammo, then pats the dead man's pockets for another magazine when he comes up empty. He's in luck. A single mag: fifteen bullets. Switching it from either hand comfortably, he concludes he might be ambidextrous and is certainly familiar with firearms. That's a Beretta he's shoving down the back of his pants. Given that he was in the hospital for a bullet wound, he supposes he probably got it in the line of duty. Either military or police.

With a sigh, the tired man re-shoulders the medicine and considers his chances. Would the vehicles have fuel and did he trust himself behind the wheel? He wasn't dizzy, but his lethargy would slow his reaction times. Given what he woke up to, it feels like it'd be just his luck to crash a car right after being shot. He doesn't even know where he'd be going anyway. Rick does try to look around for another weapon, but the couple he finds in the open are out of ammo. It feels… ominous. He supposes if he finds dead people walking around in uniform, he'll know where they came from. Especially considering there're very few bodies around him.

A duffle reveals a standard bed roll, flashlight, batteries, among other items that could be useful to a soldier stationed in a home base. It's a good find and there's probably more like it around, but he doesn't have the strength to carry much or the energy to check the entire camp for whatever could kill him. Feeling like he's pressing his luck sticking around as long as he has, Rick moves on down the road.

He walks quietly, and stays alert to hints of bodies. Just where the road meets an intersection is a sign for 'KING COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL', so at least he'll have something to look for on a map if he can find one. In front of him and to the left appear to be more road and more grass. Is this empty land or a park around him? To his distant right are buildings though, various store fronts or warehouses and at the far corner: a gas station. And hopefully a map to orientate himself.

There's no hum of electricity, rumble of vehicles, or even the soft murmur of far-away voices. This place he woke up in appears to be for all intents and purposes, a ghost town. Or a Dead Town, anyway. Rick can spy a number of inconspicuous corpses. Some torn apart until there's barely anything to be called remains, and some suspiciously whole, inside stores and leaning against the front windows. So he walks even slower, watching his footing and the bodies, and listening for even the slightest hint of movement.

It was unnerving, walking through something like a ghost town but not. Cars were abandoned there on the road, some of them hastily on curbs with the doors wide open, some of them outright crashed against poles, buildings or on their side from taking turns too fast. The gas station was surprisingly empty, but then Grimes notices a sign barely hanging off the double-door handles. 'NO GAS'. Looks like they ran out early. A peek through the glass is quick to reveal most of the stock is gone. Or at least, he can't spy any of the food or water.

Warily, Rick pushes against the door and finds it unlocked and before he opens it, he glances up. There's a bell and he reaches to silence it as he enters, scanning the racks and all the corners he can see. The practical mind in him doesn't want to waste the bullets, but he holds the Beretta out ahead of him anyway. Something in him instinctively knows he should 'clear' the room first so he walks silently, heel-toeing to each aisle before coming around the corner of the centrally located register. That's on a counter, with the left side open to pass through. The scent of death has been hanging over Rick as he walked the street, but it smells a little stronger here. He wasn't sure if that was because it was an enclosed space or not, but he's quick to discover there's another body to add to the scent.

It was a man, seated against the far wall next to an employee only door, dressed casually with a blue vest. Decay has set in, skin shrunk and hair falling out. But Rick can't tell what the damage is, or how he died. He doesn't particularly want to, but he's not planning on tiptoeing all day. That'd take more energy than he had right now. He also doesn't really want to waste bullets or ring the dinner bell to all the bodies outside if they're alert enough to come check out the gunshot.

Frowning, he glances around until he spies the tire iron at the man's feet. It's already bloody at one end, like he'd used it to defend himself. Rick edges closer, sideways to face the body and watch for any movement. His heart picks up, sweat sliding down his temples before he crouches to grab it. A sudden gurgle and the dead man's head begins to tilt up. Not wanting to be in arm's reach of the thing, the amnesiac gets one hand on the weapon and slides away before it can do more than reach out a clawed hand. Dead, bloodshot eyes stare at him and the body moves jerkily, like it's trying to stand to come after him. Rick's face goes still and he lands a quick blow to the temple of the skull, the bloodied end becoming moreso as it easily drives into the dead. The body more falls off the tire iron than Rick pulls away, so it collapses dead and still and silence once more reigns.

With a quick paranoid glance, the adrenaline-fueled man steps over the undead to test the door handle and can't decide if he's pleased it's unlocked. The back looks almost untouched, but he's not sure he wants two entrances those things could come through. Then again, he's not sure an escape route wouldn't be the better plan anyway. So Grimes sets the tool down, puts the safety on the Beretta and starts to case the place. He doesn't find much, the shelves almost entirely empty, even of the cooking or automotive supplies. Not that he'd have anything to carry them with anyway.

He is lucky enough to find a forgotten packet of pistachios on the floor, tucked under the bottom shelf. Helping himself as he swings around back to the counter, he's pleased to find several road maps of Georgia left and at the idea that his memory's not completely gone if he can remember his country and state. Opening one points him in the direction of King County but the area is small compared to the rest of the state, high north and abutting a National Forest. Only a couple of towns are named there, but thankfully another quick search reveals a single local map, misplaced between other state maps.

King County looks like nothing but a couple small towns and a lot of back roads. He finds the hospital fairly easily, there's only two in the entire area. Then he scans the streets for his address. It doesn't take long, but the little neighborhood he must live in is a couple miles from his current location. If he remembered how to get there he might know a shortcut, or if he wanted to risk going straight through the town he'd probably get there faster. As it is, Rick memorizes a more circular route to avoid the main thoroughfares and folds up his map. Armed with a gun and tire iron, map tucked in a back pocket and the nuts gone, he heads for the employee door. The milk crates looked promising.

There's several on the floor, already looted. A number of the ones stacked up are empty, but Rick is quick to spy that the ones below that are still packed with goods. People must've been in and out just grabbing what they could reach. But he took his time here, making sure not to make a lot of noise as he moved the crates, one eye on the door, the other scanning the small storage area. A desk and chair in the back appear untouched, a door to the bathrooms all that remains of a minimal employee lounge.

Without much care, the cautious man cracks open the first bottle he finds and drinks. He recognizes the taste of Gatorade actually and hopes it'll do him some good even if it's not at all cold. There's a roll-up door in the back, open by about a foot, but nothing has cast even a shadow in the sunlight since Rick got there. It's likely how people looted the back rather than go through the front doors. There's no more food to be found, the few crates still around bearing drinks of many kinds. The water's gone too. Probably sold off in the first few days of… whatever kind of hell on earth did this.

The Gatorade's too salty to help with his dehydration, though he hopes the advertised 'electrolytes', whatever those actually are, will help him. He moves on to a crate of juice, picks apple and drinks quickly. He doesn't really want to have one hand occupied when he wants both on a weapon, but in the Georgia sunshine, he'll need all the fluids he can get. Grabbing an orange juice to go, Rick shoulders open the door to go back to the front. That's been clear so far, and he hasn't seen that alley in back to take the risk.

Swinging the tire iron casually, Grimes gets a feel for the heavy tool while simultaneously drinking and scanning his surroundings. The middle of the road is the most open, so he keeps away from the buildings, checks over his shoulder frequently, and makes his way through his memorized route. He could really use a nap about now, but there's no guarantee of safety here. Hell, maybe even his house won't be safe. He kind of doubts his wife will still be there, after all this. He hopes she made it out alright, though he is curious about the lack of ring. Did he lose it at some point? He's hopeful it wasn't just taken off his finger while he slept, since what would gold do people when the end has come? Water, food, bullets and medicines would be the reigning currency for a long time it looked like.

It felt like the same scenery was being repeated around him as he wandered through the neighborhood. Life interrupted. A lawnmower left out, a kid's bike, a crashed car, a birthday party in the front yard. Oh, a _bike_. That might be helpful. He was pretty sure he could ride. Rick dropped his emptied juice bottle, hooked the tire iron into a belt loop and then righted the bright red metal. He almost fell over when a nearby half-corpse let out a gurgle and _twitched_.

"Jesus!" he breathed, grasping his chest as he watched the dead woman start to flip herself over onto her stomach. Her arms reach out grasping, but he can't stop staring at the trailing bits of spine and femur hanging from her torso. It's utterly grotesque, and Rick swallows down bile in an attempt not to gag. It's torso was so thin, he doubted the organs inside were at all viable, though logically he ought to check if these things could be killed by getting the heart… No. No, it's got to be the brain; the undead are all bloodless that he could tell. He kills the thing with a quick gesture half bent over his bike, and wincing in sympathy for the likely way that poor woman died. He turns his mind away from it, tries to stick to his goals. Getting a leg over the bike was surprisingly painful though, and he gritted his teeth and breathed. Fire flared across the muscles of his left side making his eyes water. But he had to stay alert.

Staying upright and looking around, the man checked his bags were still secured across his shoulders and finally made himself kick off. His balance was precarious and painful at first, but as he got the momentum up on the vehicle it wasn't too bad. It was lucky he was so damn close to his address in the first place though.

Just down the street, around the corner, and halfway down his number showed up. The destruction was less obvious here, and no more ominous for the simple fact that there were no people around. Unable to think of a non-painful way to dismount, Rick let the bike slow naturally then swung a leg back over to try and stop. He still noisily dropped the little bicycle when his gunshot flared, making him hunch over to try and breath through it.

His medicine bag dropped from his shoulder and hung off his wrist, but at least that reminded him that he carried pain relievers. Grimes moves slowly, trying to keep one eye on lookout while he searches for the ibuprofen he used earlier, pills shifting and making a small racket as he did so. When he found it, he waited for everything to still so he could listen hard. Nothing. It was more nerve racking here than it was in the town. At least there he could see the hint of bodies through storefront windows. Now the old houses gave no signs of life, though he couldn't quite convince himself he was actually alone.

Dry swallowing the pills, Rick zipped and swung the bag back over his shoulder, then headed towards his front door. He wasn't sure what he'd find, but no time like the present. Thankfully the entrance was unlocked, though that didn't exactly fill him with good thoughts. He didn't know what he was expecting, but the living room wasn't quite it. Or maybe it was less the blank walls and more the distinct lack of memory. He doesn't know this room. It could've been anyone's. Frowning at the blank walls and empty shelves, the tired man quietly lifts his tire iron again and starts to clear the house. Checking around furniture and in closets, peeking around doorframes and gliding through halls the best he was able took up more than a few minutes.

He ended his strange tour with a little boy's room. Sitting on the colorful blanket, he can't help but take in the notion. He had a son. No-no, he _has_ a son. Conviction sang in his chest, and he didn't know why or where from, but he was absolutely sure. He has a son. The boy is alive somewhere out there. Then observations come to him, help him back up the thought. There were no photos anywhere, the empty shelves probably held family albums, and there were frames lying empty on their backs in almost every room.

No one would take another family's photos in desperate times. Why bother? Somewhere in this new dangerous world, he has a family surviving him. They probably think he's dead. Rick wonders if the danger happened so suddenly they couldn't retrieve him. Not that he thought it was practical anyway, collecting a comatose man to try and take care of on the run. They're probably guilt ridden, he thinks sadly and hopes that he can find them someday.

With a sigh, Grimes stands again though his eye catches a drawing left on the wall. A bright yellow star, the points bulbous little circles, and his last name etched in black through the middle. A Sheriff's star. A child's hopes and dreams, or a picture for his daddy, he wondered. The tips of his fingers touched the rough crayon before he could think about it, and he pulls himself away wistfully.

Rick returns to the master bedroom, taking in the details he'd missed before. The closet doors were open, and a few articles of women's clothing still hung up. The bed was immaculately made with a small mountain of pillows. A picture frame was on its face along the otherwise blank dresser top. It looked empty. A stark contrast to the child's room, which could've passed for a messy boy who needed a reminder to pick up after himself. He guesses they packed in a hurry, the woman probably pulling all the clothes she could without looking at them while the boy hastily grabbed his favorites and tossed what he didn't want on the floor.

Huffing through his nostrils, the tired man cracks his neck and gets started. He moves the sliding closet doors to find his own many clothes left there and picks out the sturdiest cotton shirts he can find. A couple long-sleeved plaids make it to the bed. Then a wool-lined leather jacket. It's goddamn hot out, but he'd like to keep winter supplies on hand. Besides, the leather would be good protection, he thinks. Below the shirts are a couple pairs of shoes. Well, a couple pairs of men's shoes, and many neat rows of women's. So at least whoever she is, she didn't take her entire wardrobe with her, Rick huffed a soft laugh. A good pair of hiking boots join his collection. He moves on to the dresser.

A couple of lighter cotton shirts are added to the bed, he doesn't seem to own any tank tops, just T-shirts in white or grey. Four pairs of rolled together socks. Skipping the woman's couple drawers, Rick finds his pants. Thank God he's not the kind of guy to wear shorts, he smirks. A number of sturdy and light denim jeans are for choice, not counting his slacks, and he tilts his head to think. He finally chooses three pairs: the thickest and thus warmest denim in black, a thin paint spattered pair obviously worn in, and a sturdy dark blue. The last drawer carries some thermal underwear, a couple rolled up belts and… his gun belt. He touches the attached holster, the number of different sized pockets attached to it. He remembers the boy's Sheriff star and concludes he definitely was a police officer.

He starts to put his loot together, shedding the stranger's clothes in favor of his own. He wears the thinner pants for now, too hot and weary to worry about protection over mobility. A T-shirt and plaid overshirt out of something that might be habit. He needs a belt to hold up his pants, having lost weight in his coma, and the gun belt receives his Beretta. The rest he folds and rolls up the best he can for when he hopefully finds a bag for them.

There's nothing of use in the bedside tables and the hall linen cupboard is obviously minus a few blankets and towels, but nothing he'd take with him. Finished with the upper floor, Rick retreats downstairs and starts looking through drawers and hidden nooks of the public rooms. The more he uncovers, especially the useless little knick-knacks he has no idea the stories behind, the more he becomes morose. The cheap little baseball trophy with no name: a t-ball season? A couple math worksheets, marked with 'good jobs' behind a table, forgotten. A woman's floral patterned hair clip, left in the junk drawer in the kitchen. At least he learned the boy's name was Carl. _Carl_ , he thought hopefully. _If wishes were horses_.

Rick Grimes sighs, and decides to skip taking the kitchen knives. With no sheaths and plastic grips they were less useful than the tire iron when it came to the dead. The decades old rosette china displayed in the old fashioned cabinet made him miss more than just his immediate family. He had had parents at some point, maybe even siblings? Maybe they were from his wife's parents, passed down. Wherever they came from, they made it all the more evident that he'd lost his family histories as well.

An upper cabinet closest to the living room revealed something different. Hanging on the door were a set of keys, a mix from large to small, and a small metal keychain-a sheriff's badge. Rick considers them silently. They could just be to regular household things, the house, a car, a safe or safe deposit at a bank. But maybe they were his work keys. Something to open up the police station and then the _gun cage_. It was worth a shot.

Tucking them fully into a front pocket to keep the noise down, the man heads back into what passed as an office he supposed. Or a study room for the boy, since he finds more homework sheets on the desk. The laptop, printer, and various little things that ran on electricity were cold and dusty. Though a westward facing window heats up the room to stifling levels. He doesn't really want to, but he makes himself go through every book on the wood shelving unit. It's a little bit personality study, but mostly a practicality. Who knew what he could find?

There's a number of old cookbooks, a couple fiction and non-fiction he imagined a woman might prefer, based on the number of romantic looking covers, occupying one shelf. The shelf at about hip height held children's books, all fiction or coloring books. There was a trend towards the older reading levels, and Rick fingered a series of new Harry Potter novels. There were only three. He felt like it'd been a long time since the Prisoner of Azkaban came out, so he was pretty sure it was bought to challenge his young son. Maybe they were reading it together? In what could only be a fit of whimsy, he quickly collected the novel to set on the table for later.

An empty shelf on the bottom left only his own at the very top, right at his eye level. There were more fiction than non, largely of only a couple authors: James Patterson, Michael Connelly, and Dean Koontz. Mysteries and thrillers. A couple biographies about soldiers or cops. And then something more useful: an old U.S. Army Survival Manual. But Rick frowns as he tugs it out. There's a set of papers, folded and bulging the inner pages a little in the middle of the manual. He lets the book fall open, then coughs at the heavy cloud of dust. The page edges were dark with it and the cover looked like it had been through hell. Was this a family heirloom, kept around for memory rather than purpose?

The printed pages were much whiter, the ink newer. Holding the open book in one palm, Rick waves his free hand through the dust, trying to clear his vision to read. Blinking a couple times, he finally realizes what they were and his eyes water for a whole new reason. Oh.

They were 'Petition for Dissolution of Marriage' papers. _Lorraine Grimes_ was the petitioner. His face falls and a small part of his heart breaks. He'd been so… Optimistic? He didn't even know what he was feeling really. Some part of him is bewildered, another morose, and a strange part indifferent. If he didn't have any memory of this woman, then why is he so sad? Yet, he knows he isn't as emotional as he could've been. He _doesn't_ remember this woman, their marriage, if it'd highs or lows, fights or good times. He isn't devastated or enraged. So what is he so sad about?

Rick lets himself fall into the desk chair to think about it, ignoring the creaking and puff of dust in the setting sun. It takes him a few minutes. To wonder, and think about, to analyze his own feelings before realizing he'd been looking forward to being reunited with a family. His _wife and son_. Now-now, if he did find them, he'd find this Lorraine who'd wanted to be his _ex-wife_ and son. He was allowed to be disappointed, he decided, then took another glance at the papers. The legalese wasn't too hard to work through, and he found this woman had sighted irreconcilable differences and was filing for custody of Carl.

It was signed 'Lori Grimes' on the second page. He's dismayed by a lack of date on anything, doesn't know why they were hidden, but hopes he didn't marry the kind of woman who would lay in wait for him to throw these in his face when he was down. Maybe his being shot and falling into a coma were the reason she set them aside? Shaking his head, Rick gives up for the moment, and lets the bad news fall where they would while he left the room to check the garage. He takes the manual and The Prisoner of Azkaban with him.

He moves heavier now, tread tired and lagging under the weight of rejection. The garage air is even more boiling than the office, uninsulated from the heat by the look of the unfinished walls. But there's quite a bit in storage here, mostly plastic bins holding holiday decorations, gardening instruments, or half-hearted tool containers. Obviously he hadn't been that handy on the house. A second look tells him a couple of the bins are probably missing. Winter clothes have been haphazardly tossed in a corner, incongruous to the rest of the fairly neat organization. Frowning a little, Rick pokes a toe at the snow jackets then looks away. He already has a coat picked out, and he can just hope his ex-wife thought ahead enough to grab appropriate ones.

There is one thing he was hoping to find. A large sports bag, half full of equipment like baseball gloves, a bat, football, and a deflated basketball. Carefully taking out the heavy steel bat, the drawn-faced survivor lets the rest of the items fall out before swinging his two smaller bags into the larger one. It doesn't even fill half the cavernous black space. Had he coached his son's sports team at some point, Grimes wondered with bemusement. He hefts the bag with some effort and throws it over his neck, across one shoulder. He gives the bat a twirl, liking it's heft, and decides to keep that as well.

Then he adds the rest of his items: the books, the clothes upstairs, puts the bat in so he can keep the tire iron handy instead. Wishes he'd found a first aid kit, or had the ability to grab more supplies from the hospital, but maybe he could pick up more later. He's just tapped the keys to check they remained in his front pocket when he hears the quick step shuffle of sneakers on concrete. Rick automatically reaches for the Beretta, but stills. Very faintly, he can hear the growl of the undead as well.

He peeks out the front window and is actually surprised by the sight. There is a walking dead man, but there's also two people out there. A man and a boy, and they look just fine, like survivors. It's his first glimpse of something living in this hard world. He doesn't even have memories of people that once were to fall back on. The dark skinned couple, probably father and son, hustle quietly down the street until they're halfway across his window on the far side of the street. And suddenly, the amnesiac can't let this moment pass him by. He doesn't even think of the risk. Can't when the reward is so needed.

The rotten corpse is shuffling faster than he's seen before, but it's quite obviously one of the dead, given it's smell and hungry sounds. It's also entirely occupied with following the males before it, paying no attention to the frail Rick Grimes coming up behind. Unlike the adult of the duo who quickly spies Rick and whips his gun over, obviously expecting a threat. Maybe he's expecting an opportunist, someone looking to loot their corpses after they're dead. Maybe he's just overly paranoid.

Either way, the thin man tries to win some leeway by whistling sharp, but low at the corpse. It stumbles to a stop and so do the man and boy. "C'mon," Rick mutters and it finally starts to turn. His swing makes the perfect arc into the soft spot of the human temple and it quickly falls over dead. Before the suspicious man can react, Grimes holds up both hands in surrender. He's probably not a very reassuring helper, looking as ill as he likely does.

"State your business," the black skinned man states coldly, dark eyes hardened to the world around him. The boy looks more weary than frightened, but he's also watching his guardian's back for more undead. They've been at this awhile.

The tired man holds his pose, despite his exhaustion climbing and making his arms tremble. "I'm just hoping for some help. I woke up in the hospital today."

"Today?" the other asks incredulously, "You expect me to believe you slept through the world being torn apart?"

Rick winces at the phrasing, it brings to mind quite recent events, "I've been in a coma for a month, according to my chart. I'm uh-having a hard time of it, needless to say," the boy gives a snort of a laugh, and he feels encouraged, "And I'd greatly appreciate a little help, really just information if that's all you can spare. And-" he suddenly remembers and reaches for his hopefully-work keys, carefully ignoring the way the gun becomes more fixed on him to show the man proof, "I think these keys go to the police station. I can try to pay you back in weapons."

His audience is still skeptical, though a bit more tempted, "You _think?_ "

"Well, I can't rightly know," Rick tries to explain in a reasonable tone, "I didn't know my own name before I saw my medical sheet."

" _You what?!_ "


	2. NO GUTS, NO GLORY

The conversation from the quarry camp ran through his ears on loop. He couldn't get it out of his head.

" _Merle! Merle, get your ugly ass out here! I got us some squirrel, let's stew 'em up!"_

" _Daryl, just slow up a bit. I need to talk to you."_

It's like his brain was trying to change the past, trying to hear something else, anything else, than what that goddamned cop said. His hands were starting to shake, in anxiety or anger, he couldn't tell. It would do him no favors in these hills.

" _He dead?"_

" _We're not sure."_

" _He either is or he ain't!"_

All those fucking people, staring at him with their scared, glassy eyes. Like _he_ was the one at fault. Like his yelling and making a fuss was the problem. While they just stood around like sheep, waiting to be culled when their shepherd don't come back. He remembered the little blond teen, arms wrapped around herself and tears threatening to fall at the slightest provocation.

" _Nobody came back, Daryl. Nobody. They-tried, they tried the radio, but it didn't come through. We think they were… overrun."_

" _And ain't nobody go'n do somethin'? Huh? Well, copper, why the Hell don't you go get them?"_

" _Nobody's leaving the camp, Daryl. It's too dangerous and we're defenseless enough as it is."_

" _Hell with all y'all! Just tell me where they at and I'll get 'em!"_

Yeah, that girl, Amy he thought her name was, she had some balls. She was probably just as grief stricken as Morales' woman and children, but she had the gumption to stand up and do something about it. Shane wouldn't let anyone leave the camp. But Daryl'd never listened to cops anyway, and he wasn't about to spend the apocalypse starting to.

" _They went to the shopping center right next to where the 85 and 75 meet. I don't know where-"_

" _Amy!"_

" _That's good enough. I got this."_

" _Damn it, Dixon!"_

Fucker had tried to run in front of him, but the hunter quickly angled away, back for the trees, starting at a trot, then a run to stay ahead of the frustrated man. Oh, he'd hollered and cursed something awful, making that poor Carol woman gasp and clasp her daughter close. But still, Daryl didn't listen and tossed his string of squirrels at the man to trip him up, slow him down. That made him so mad, Daryl could've sworn the cop turned red like a cartoon character.

" _Fine! Fine! We don't need your white trash ass anyway! You don't want to stay and protect the living, that's your choice, but don't you come back here again! You come back I'll beat your ass so black and blue, you'll_ _ **wish**_ _your Daddy was alive to beat you instead!"_

It was anger, he decided. Rage so powerful he'd gone cold with it was making his hands shake. He didn't know where Shane got his information, or when he figured it out, but fuck him for blaring it for the entire camp to hear. The man had laid final insult to bad news, trying to make sure that he wouldn't even _try_ to come back. Not to where everyone knew.

But the younger Dixon would show him. He'd find his brother, he'd find the whole goddamn scavenging party and take them back to the quarry. They'd only been gone a day. That's plenty of time to be holed up somewhere safe from the dead and still have the energy to get out if someone would just come along and help.

Daryl broke away from the treeline into the bright sunlight, then fell into a crouch at the sudden motion ahead of him. Thick brush protected him from view, but as his eyes adjusted he was able to tell what lay ahead of him. The freeway was what he'd been aiming for, but on that freeway was something unexpected. A man riding a horse. A freaking cowboy, just moseying along into Atlanta, ignoring the throng of cars heading in the opposite direction. Either this man was a freaking badass or a complete idiot. Harder to tell after so long, Daryl would've thought most of the _real_ idiots would be eaten by now, but was surprised every day by acts of human stupidity.

The hunter watched for a few long minutes, indecisive. The man seemed to be going in his direction. He didn't want company, didn't want to negotiate or have to kill a man for no reason other than he's being an asshole. But that horse's hooves seemed awful loud. And it'd be a heavy meal for a pack of undead. Daryl tilted his head towards the noon-day sun and decided to follow along as long as the cowboy was going his way.

He slipped back into the treeline, let his eyes adjust again and then stalked quietly just behind the horseman, around twenty feet back from the freeway. It was a fairly dull walk, just quick enough to get his heart pumping to keep up with the beast's four-legged stride. The trees started to thin out, but the cowboy rarely looked long over his shoulders. He was either confident or ignorant, the way he never checked directly behind him. Daryl was able to take in little details as the minutes dragged.

The man wore blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, a single duffle over his shoulder, and just the one gun in a holster that the hunter could see. He wore a hat, though it wasn't a typical country style. It might be leather, hard to tell with the distance and the glare of the sun. The underbrush disappeared and the trees became younger, letting the heat beat down on his head through the many gaps and rustling leaves.

Daryl would have to fall back soon, his cover was disappearing. The first turn off for the freeway was coming up and the stranger would have to take it or else follow the long curves of the twisting mergers overhead to get wherever he was going. If he did head that way, at least Dixon wouldn't have to worry about tailing him. He was taking that turn off into the northernmost major shopping district the city had.

The redneck crouched before he left the shadow of the woods, watching silently. Strange how from here the city was so quiet, though he knew there was a horde of the dead within. The horseman got further and further away, until soon even the sound of the animal's walk disappeared. Still, he crouched, a well of patience developed over many years hunting for his dinner. And just when sweat started to drip into his eyes, Daryl deemed the stranger far enough. He wiped his brow, squinted into the heat glare, and set out.

Since the man hadn't looked directly behind him since Dixon started watching, he settled into the middle of the road, watching the brown colored speck start towards the off ramp. He sighed, readjusted his grip on the crossbow over his shoulder and continued on. He wished Shane hadn't chased him out of the camp like that, would've liked to grab fresh water. Couldn't drink from the creeks anymore, never knew what was upstream, and he hadn't grabbed a new bottle of boiled water when he walked into camp. Hadn't stopped to hunt either since the scavengers had already been gone a full day.

Up ahead, the single man reached the first stretch of roads and buildings sprouted up, already tall, glass-windowed structures. Cars were parked along the street, abandoned, alongside bits of detritus and creeping weeds. Dead grass and leafy trees sporadically lined the sidewalks. A bus lay far ahead.

Daryl immediately took to the cars when he had the chance, heart thumping with adrenaline as he leveled his crossbow and withdrew his hunting knife. The dead were already with them, even if the cowboy was oblivious. He moved silently after the horse, dispatching the lazy sumbitches when he could. So far none were up and moving. Without anything living to chase they seemed to be inert. Or maybe it was the heat of the day, making them slow like it did the living most of the time. Taking a fucking afternoon _siesta_.

He slammed the knife through another geek's skull, somehow still sitting in a vehicle. Wondered vaguely if the asshole died there. Up ahead, the horse whinnied, and Daryl realized his stranger wasn't as unaware as he thought. Ducking back below a sedan hood for cover, the hunter leaned up to watch with narrow eyes. Three of the undead had stumbled out of the bus that man had pulled ahead of. His ride huffed and flared its nostrils fearfully, but stilled under the man's hand. When he turned towards them, Daryl wondered if he was going to charge them and how disastrous that'd be with a frightened mount.

Instead the bastard unsheathed a fucking sword from his side. _Holy shit._ He steadied his steed, then abruptly turned the beast sideways when the first geek was in reach. A single slash cut off the top half of its skull and the dead man fell aside for the next. And the next. It was swift, efficient. Looked goddamn murderous from the grim faced man.

Actually it was kinda hot.

Daryl winced at the thought and heating of his blood. The apocalypse was no time for messing around. No matter what a certain cop back at camp would rather do. He looked away to study the storefronts, hoping to distract himself from that feeling. There were a couple of high end fashion-type places, a couple salons advertising different beauty treatments. The high rises around them were mostly offices, sometimes fancy apartments.

Nothing he thought their camp would stop at yet. He might have to peel off from the cowboy and go block by block. Then something he'd never thought he'd hear again whooped through the air. The noisy blades of a helicopter. He and the swordsman looked up. First Daryl saw the reflection, then he turned and saw a black flash between buildings on the outskirts of the city. Was it circling? Where the hell'd it come from?

"Hyah! Hyah!" the cowboy hollered, looking like he was trying to follow the fast moving image glittering across the glass buildings. Already that looked like a fucking bad idea. He spied a tank just where the man started to turn, only for the horse to rear and flail. _Oh fuck._ He knew it was a mob before he saw it. His stomach sunk like lead and he paid no attention to the man abruptly turning the steed around.

Dixon broke cover for the open door of a chain-linked alley. He paused long enough to haul the door closed, but there was no lock, lost or broken long ago. The hunter kept moving, hearing the scream of the horse in his ears and the growls of the dead. Dumpster bins and forklifts made for irritating obstacles, forcing him to twist as he ran. He could swear he heard the galloping of hooves running parallel to him down the street.

When he heard the heavy crash, another beastial scream, he knew the swordsman had had the same idea. Only his ride hadn't made it. His lungs burned as he finally reached the next street and was surprised to find the walking dead few and far between. They must've been gathered on the streets a bit further south and encouraged to follow the noise of the horse. A single swing of his crossbow sent a dead man reaching for him to the ground, then the next block up he heard a sudden clatter. An echoing ring that couldn't be true. Quickly crouching to kill the undead, he rose just as the horse appeared from the alley, its breath blowing like a steam engine. Sans rider.

Instinct made the hunter raise his bow before he even knew what he was going to do. A bolt lodged itself dead center of a woman's skull, allowing the animal to run past unharassed. Good luck to it, he thought quietly, already moving towards the alley, grabbing the bolt on the move. If it made it out of the city, he hoped it ran hard for the woods, maybe found a nice herd somewhere. In the dark bricked alley, also strewn with the shit that slowed him down, he spied the line of geeks ambling quickly towards him but no rider. Not already attacked, not limping on, not down on the ground anywhere.

Confused as a bat in sunlight, Daryl froze for stupidly long seconds. Even as he did so, he knew it was dumb. Some bit of human stupidity left in him after all. Then he heard a voice, and automatically started forward despite the hostiles before him.

"C'mon! Up! Up, get up here!" He knew that sound.

Daryl Dixon turned and fled back the way he came, knowing that particular path was closed to him. But he knew where he'd want to go. That was the Asian's voice. Glenn's words. The only man foolishly brave or naively invincible enough to go into Atlanta on his own for supplies. He'd led the scavengers in, and was a good sign they were all still alive. That herd had been right in front of the department store Glenn and the stranger climbed, blocking them in.

Circling the building, he killed a couple geeks trailing out of his alleyway with a bolt and knife. A glance found him a way up, stairs and decks piled on top of each other to reach the various windows above. A fire escape for the former residents, only it didn't have the convenience of slowing the dead down like a ladder would. Daryl climbed, fast as he could, thighs burning quick after all that running. Puffing for air in the humid weather, he reached the second landing and turned to find a tail of dead following.

With a yelled grunt of effort, the hunter kicked the one in front hard, sending him toppling back into the rest like dominoes. From there he couldn't push any faster, but he couldn't let himself slow neither. When he was one floor down from the roof he was relieved to find a ladder. Grip slippery, but arms iron strong, Dixon made himself keep going without pause. The groans of the creatures below was a deathly chorus he wanted no part of.

Hauling himself over the edge, Daryl fell onto his back and trembled with the excess adrenaline. The gravel flooring hurt, but the tiny stings of rocks was nothing compared to what that skin had felt before. After a minute he couldn't stand to be still anymore despite not quite catching his breath. Glenn and the others were in the next building over. His brother was _so_ close. He got up on one elbow, then groaned at what he could see. Tempted to say 'fuck it' and rest for a bit.

His building didn't seem to touch the other one at all. No air ducts or cement bridges. His only hope was a close distance for a jump or if it also had a wide fire escape. With an admittedly pouty sigh, the young man forced himself up in the blazing heat of the unshielded Georgia sun, sheathed his knife and walked over to take a look at his odds.

Well, no worse than usual, he'd think. And he'd survived worse. One could drive two cars down that fucking alley, or small ones at least. But there were firescapes on both sides. And he could tell it connected easily to the building Glenn and the man had climbed. He couldn't see them from his current angle, but hopefully they hadn't gone far.

The gravel crunched under toe as he finally told himself to stop pussyfooting around, slinging the bow back over his shoulder and neck. Daryl took a short ladder down to the first landing, stepping close to the rail to judge the distance. "Oh Jesus, fuck," he muttered and looked up. He gulped. Then took a few long breaths to man up. Once he was balanced on that rail it was jump or fall. He just hoped he jumped fucking far enough.

Forcing the panic, the mindless thoughts away, the reckless hunter took a few steps back, then vaulted himself up into a crouch on the rail, getting the maximum leg strength for when he jumped. His balance wavered and geek covered ground loomed sickeningly beneath him before he pushed off and threw himself forward.

The redneck knew he wouldn't make the landing directly across from him. He thought he'd hit the one below it if he jumped far enough. He kind of did. Not exactly like he pictured it. With a yelp of pain, Daryl landed directly into the railing one story down, grip sliding and burning like a bitch. He barely managed to change his grip before he would fall again, this time flexing his bowmen's arms to their utmost to keep him from the gnawing death below. Success. Pretty much. His arms strained, trying to pull him up over to the landing, but the second he let go to grip higher, the other sweaty palm slipped. With a gasp and then a damnable whimper, Daryl fearfully gripped the metal tighter.

His hands were too damn oily, catching on the rough material then dragging a little under his weight and slick grip. Over and over, little slips, quick catches. It was surprisingly painful, like fucking rug burn or something. Just as the landing reached his wrists with next to no more length to fall and the hunter about sobbed with fright, he felt something under his feet.

Oh. The next railing. Dixon sagged forward in absolute relief. "Fuckin' idiot," he muttered to himself, then inwardly swore to tell _no one_ what had just happened. Ever.

His heart felt like it was freaking dancing in his chest, but the bowman focused on getting his balance on the rail below. He turned one hand, then the other, to hold the landing grid instead, helping him put more weight down while keeping his balance. Finally, when he could do more, Daryl let go and bent his knees to fall forward. He caught the ladder in front of him, then shakily stepped down off the tall railing. Cursing up a storm in his skull, he finally allowed himself to slow down and walk up the stairs at his own shaky pace.

Not like those people were going anywhere. They were all surrounded now. He absently wondered if he should've stayed outside the herd to provide help, then realized he wouldn't have been able to communicate without getting close. He didn't even know where Shane hoarded his police gear to snatch a radio.

Reaching the top was a relief, but Daryl was quickly surprised to find Glenn and the stranger just ahead of him, facing a roof access door. His instinct was to duck, but he stopped himself. He had no reason to. But he couldn't quite make himself known. Something wasn't right and his mouth wouldn't open to speak. It was their body language, he decided. The stranger was rather stoic… though it seemed like he was in charge of the situation. The younger Asian man's shoulders were slumped and tired, head nodding with his words.

The hunter moved silently by habit, letting the soles of his boots land gently on the gravel as he crept a little closer. A huge air duct was just the right height to hide his crouched form where it traveled into the building. He narrowed blue eyes on them, trying to catch a hint of what they were saying. Finally, the stranger turned more towards the kid and put his hands on his gun belt, letting Daryl hear what they were talking about.

"And you're sure about this? You don't know me from Adam." It was a soft southern drawl, calming almost.

Glenn looked worried and conflicted about something, "You came into Atlanta on a _horse._ Yeah, I don't know you, but you're kind of our only chance out of here. Just be careful, Merle is-"

"Yeah, you told me. Don't worry about me," then the cowboy reached down and showed off shining silver bracelets, "I'll make sure he dries out." Handcuffs. The fucker was a cop!

 _Oh Hell no,_ was Daryl's first thought, but he stopped himself from darting forward. Glenn was nodding, and looking goddamn grateful. Then the words registered: dries out. The younger Dixon's face collapsed into a cringe and he gently thudded his head against the blazing hot metal. Shit. His brother done fucked up again. He could've sworn the man had listened to him and left all of his drugs in the motorcycle saddlebags. But he should've known better.

When the redneck looked up again, the roof door was falling shut. Damn it. He lunged for it, just catching it before it would latch, then slid inside and let it clack closed. If the men traveling down were at all observant they would've been listening for it. A stairwell echoes no matter what a person did, so Daryl would have to use all his skill to follow them silently. He was already there, he might as well make himself useful. But he didn't want to frighten Glenn, or make them think he'd side with his brother no matter what. No one at camp knew about the Dixon's knockdown drag out brotherly arguments they'd had before the apocalypse. Probably assumed they came as one unit just like the one last name. Daryl tolerated the assumptions so they'd allow Merle to stick around, but he was the one that hunted and shared his kills. Merle was more inclined to soldiering, or just plain fighting really.

Going down the dim stairwell, the hunter tried to match the footsteps ahead of him, hoping to make any sounds seem like mere echoes. When he made it to the fifth, he heard their voices again, "It might've been a good idea, staying on the third to leave a buffer floor between us and the geeks, if Merle wasn't so loud about everything anyway."

A soft laugh answered the boy, then said, "You ready for this?"

No more words, but Glenn must've nodded because Daryl heard a door creak open. He hustled down, heart pumping and calves burning, to where the third floor entrance was just closing ahead of him. Puffing a little, he stopped to calm his breathing and bemoaned the excessive work out this trip had been. Hunting in the woods was so much easier than navigating a damn city.

Slowly lowering the door handle, the quiet man winced at the unavoidable clicking, then edged the door open only wide enough to slide him and his crossbow through. There were no tracks to follow on the linoleum flooring, but he could hear voices ahead and knew where his stranger would be headed.

"Say, how come we ain't never hooked up, honeybunch? It's the end of the world, what say we go off somewhere and bump uglies. We're all gonna die anyway," a backwoods rough drawl carried loudly.

"I'd rather," the dry feminine voice replied back. Amy's sister, Daryl thought. She didn't sound afraid. Then again, he'd never heard her sound frightened in the couple weeks he knew her. One tough bitch.

A disgustingly wet hiss of breath, Merle sucking on his teeth in a way that always made Daryl want to whack him upside the head, followed before a muttered, "Rug muncher. Figured as much." The younger brother paused to close his eyes and sigh. _Such a dick._

Then there was the sudden sound of flesh meeting flesh, a yowl of pain, and Daryl darted ahead. He came out of the clothing racks to a main corridor and saw one section over by a broken vending machine that Merle must've cornered the blond woman at, the cowboy attacking his brother and Glenn was standing off to the side. The lady saw him first and went wide eyed before looking back at the fight in front of her.

Merle had bent over clutching his head and cursing, before taking a swift knee to the ribs and losing his breath. He fell even lower, then in a typical cop move the stranger grabbed his arms and drove a knee into his back to bring him to the floor. His older brother bucked like a wild thing, cursing again, but was disarmed before he could reach his weapon. The pistol was slid over to Glenn who flinched away from it like it was a wild animal, and the bowie knife was slid into a belt loop to hang behind him. The clicks of cuffs, of Merle's enraged cursing was familiar enough that Daryl couldn't help hunching his shoulders and looking away dejectedly. It was a common scene before the dead rose.

The blond cleared her throat to direct the other men's attention, but looked directly at the younger Dixon, "Daryl. Did uh-did you come with the rest of the camp?" The Asian turned around at the name, obviously expecting another battle from his wide brown eyes and defensive surrender. Daryl tried not to flinch, but readjusted the bow on his shoulder, clinging to the strap like an insecure child.

He shook his head while looking away from them, ashamed that they feared him and angry about the situation. About Shane not allowing a rescue, about their assumptions, and about his goddamn brother causing trouble again. But he glanced at the stranger who knew nothing of them, saw him watching from where he had one knee on the squirming Merle who after hearing he was there, was calling for Daryl to "come kill this sumbitch" for him.

Icy blue eyes watched him carefully, but didn't seem judgemental. His whole face was rather still, like he thought nothing of handling the bucking man below him or of the fact that Daryl had followed them in. It was the complete opposite of how most cops had looked at him when they were arresting his brother. A lot of the time it was like they were hoping to get him too. This one just seemed to be looking at… Daryl.

The hunter finally ducked his chin, then nodded at his brother, "Check his pockets," he grumbled softly. Glenn and the woman, he had to try and remember her name, watched him in disbelief, making him look away again. The stranger did exactly what he said, patting down jeans then flipping Merle like a bag of potatoes to check his vest. His brother squawked at the pain, then tried to turn again to keep the hands out of his possessions. It did no good. The man was light-handed and quickly slid a small vial of white powder from the pocket closest to the man's heart. _Fucker_ , Daryl thought towards his kin.

"Man, that is _my_ stuff! Hey! Give it back!" Merle was ignored, as the the cowboy stood, resting one boot on the redneck's chest casually to keep him down. Daryl grit his teeth at the sight, but quickly had to look up when the man tossed it to him. He stared at the small amount of coke in disbelief. Then met those calm blue eyes again for an explanation. He knew what he looked like. He looked the same as Merle, same as any other guys who'd associated with Dixons: redneck hick. With his baggy worn out blue denims and sleeveless neutral green shirt for hunting, scuffed boots, self-cut hair and scraggly facial hair, bowie knife and crossbow on him, he was the epitome of backwoods trailer trash.

The stranger just stared at him like this sort of thing happened everyday, "I trust you'll make sure he doesn't get into it again."

Glenn couldn't seem to decide who to stare at. This odd cowboy he'd put his trust in, or the obviously stunned bowman. The woman looked concerned, like she was ready to cast doubt on him. Well, fuck her then. Daryl got a determined look in his eye and gave the man a nod, "I'mma toss it off the fuckin' roof."

"Daryl?!" Merle suddenly shouted, seemingly just remembering he was there again now that he carried something so precious to him. He was arching up to see over the boot on his chest, straining his arms, "Don't you do something so stupid, baby brother. You bring that on back to good ol' Merle. Hey, you, uh, can even have a sniff if you want, I'm not stingy!"

Anger heated his veins, listening to his kin try to negotiate for his high. If the man was in his right mind, he'd remember that Daryl didn't stand for that crap. He'd never tried meth, Merle's favorite source of income, and he'd take a single hit of the white powder once a year maybe, when he was feeling real low but didn't want to admit it, letting Merle talk him into it. Always felt like shit after. He gripped the tiny bottle and stepped forward.

The blond lady started to fuss, "Wait, you're not going to-" and stopped as the swordsman stepped off of his hostage with a look of respect. Somehow, he knew what Daryl was going to do before the man himself did. Merle had started to praise his little brother for helping him out when his words were cut off in a grunt. The hunter had landed a kick right in the gut, avoiding his ribs because he knew they'd been cracked before, but easily punching the breath out the man for a few minutes.

He was already trying to curse before he could fully breath. Daryl didn't want to hear it, turned for the stairwell again with the damned cocaine burning a hole in his hand. He could hear the sound of people following, and wasn't surprised when that soft drawl started again.

"Gather up your people, let's get on the roof and get an idea of the situation now."

"Andrea?" Glenn asked. Oh, so that was her name. Andrea and Amy. Even sounded like sisters despite how far apart in age they were.

"Yeah, they're two stores over, I'll get them." Sneakers squeaked away and Merle got louder in the interim.

"Hey, you hear me pig! You better pray! I get loose, you better pray! _You hear me?!"_

Daryl was surprised by the other man's absent response, "Yeah, your voice carries." He looked over his shoulder and had to keep from smiling a little. The stranger just looked so at ease about it all, like it was just another day at the office. The hunter shook his head and realized Glenn had joined them when they reached the right door again. They traveled up without looking at each other, and no one said a word while the younger Dixon walked right to the edge of the roof before flinging the drugs so fast they couldn't see where the shine of glass vanished to.

"So, uh…" Glenn muttered nervously, adjusting his hat and glancing between the two other men. The cowboy gave him a friendly look from under his brim, and Daryl finally realized it was a Sheriff's hat, with the tassels and star on the front. Guess he wanted to take something of the uniform with him then.

"Why don't you tell Daryl what his brother's been up to, and when everyone gets up here we'll figure a way out," the man suggested calmly. The kid fidgeted some more, obviously uncomfortable with that idea. But the Dixon did admit, he wanted to know. When the boy hemmed and hawed over it, he got sick of being treated like a ticking time bomb.

"Well come on, Chinaman! Give it t'me straight, the fuck'd he do?" That got him a full body flinch, but a stronger wide eyed stare. Made him show a little spine somehow.

"I'm _Korean._ "

Daryl shrugged, pleased with the indignation and hoping it sped things along, "Whatever."

With another look to the stranger, the young man finally spoke, "We were all going through the stores, and Merle was up on the roof, said he'd keep watch for the geeks. But suddenly he just started shooting them. He had a rifle, but we barely had any rounds. We went up to stop him, and he called T-Dog a n-a nigger, then beat him up. He got his gun out, said he was going to be in charge now, made us raise our hands like we voted for it." Yeah, Daryl could see how that would frighten them. But the fact of the matter was, Merle acted like an alpha dog until a bigger, meaner dog came around. The hunter had no idea why he hadn't physically fought Shane yet, though he guessed it would take a bit of blow to get him started. In actuality, if all of them had stuck to their guns and said _no_ , Merle would've sulked, maybe gone off on his own, but he wouldn't have hurt them. Not that anyone would believe Daryl, but he knew his brother. He didn't face rejection well.

Glenn had more to say, "After that he finished the rifle ammo, picking off walkers. A herd was moving in for us, and when we went downstairs they were all pressed up against the glass doors where our cars were. There's no vehicles in the alleyway, not that Merle would let us try to figure a way out. He was having too much _fun._ "

Dixon winced. Yeah, life of the party was Merle. Huffing a sigh through his nose, the hunter contemplated what to say, but couldn't think of anything. He wasn't going to apologize for his brother's actions. He wasn't responsible for him, the dumbass was a fucking grown up. He settled for asking a question, "Heard you blocked off the first floor. The dead get in down there?"

"Yeah," the _Korean_ boy answered, looking a little bewildered by the redneck's response, "They broke through the double glass doors. Merle made us barricade the first floor stairwell so he could keep messing around."

"But do you know if they're still there now?" the cop wondered.

"Oh yeah," Glenn returned, "You can hear them shoving against the door, trying to get to us. They were still there a couple hours ago, and with all the noise going on, they're definitely still there now."

The man nodded thoughtfully, then all attention was on the door which banged open to let everyone else in. Daryl couldn't help keeping track, hoping no one had died because of Merle's stupidity: Andrea, Morales, T-Dog was bruised up good, that other woman-Jackie?, and finally even Merle staggered through, shouldering the door open before it could shut in his face. He sighed in relief, reluctantly glad they hadn't left his brother alone down there. The ex-soldier was puffing like he'd run a marathon and his younger sibling hoped that meant he coming down from his high.

"So, uh, who are you?" Andrea began, already giving him the eye. He may not have been on the other end of it often, but Daryl could tell when a woman was thinking about letting a man take her home.

But the lone stranger didn't seem to notice, "Rick Grimes," was all he uttered, then nodded towards the others as if to say 'let's get on with it'. The Latino stepped forward for quick introductions, having been the de facto leader of the team before Merle.

"You can call me Morales. That's Andrea, this is Jacqui," gesturing at first the light skinned then dark skinned women, before finishing with the man with the colorful bruising, "And T-Dog there. I'm guessing you already know Glenn, Merle and Daryl."

They formed a vague half-circle around Rick, save for Merle who'd sat against some piping to catch his breath. Tall and thin, Jacqui suffered no fools and stared the hunter down, "Did our radio get through? Is the rest of the camp waiting outside the herd?"

Daryl couldn't help his shoulders hunching, not wanting them to blame the messenger, but after what Merle did, expecting it, "Shane wouldn't let anyone leave. Said it was too dangerous."

"You got away though. Came all the way here to get them," Rick commented, giving the redneck that curious stare again. He shouldn't be half as comfortable with the man's stares as he was, he was a stranger for God's sake. Knew nothing about him. Even if he did speak before anyone could lay guilt at his feet. Daryl shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

"So we're on our own. And screwed then," the black man added pessimistically. The way T-Dog glared at the cuffed Merle made it obvious where he laid the blame.

"We'll make it out of this mess," the Sheriff countered, then clasped his gunbelt like he was readying for war, "What's the armory look like? What supplies do we have?"

Morales began, "The rifle's out of ammo, but Merle's pistol has a couple clips." He offered the gun up, and Daryl wondered if Glenn gave it to him or refused to touch it downstairs. Had the nagging feeling that his brother had waved more than his dick around at these people.

Andrea revealed her own weapon, "A gift from my dad, but I only have nine bullets." When no one offered up more, the tall man looked to his left at the hunter from under his brim as if to wonder why he didn't speak up, but continued without pause. The redneck felt some relief as the spotlight seemed to pass him by.

"I've got my Colt, 6 rounds, a Beretta with an extra clip, and the saber. Merle's knife too." Saber? With raised brows, Daryl eyed the sword at the man's left hip then realized just how damn old it looked. What'd the guy do, raid a Civil War museum? Actually… that's not a half bad idea. But Rick wasn't done, "Any other hand-to-hand weapons? Something we could grab from downstairs? Also, anything in your vehicles that would be worth getting?"

"Fireman's ax," Glenn quickly offered up, "Saw one on the second story. Could be more."

The Latino nodded, then countered, "We don't need the mini-van if we can't get it. It's running on fumes anyway and we traveled light."

"Alright, then spread out, check the perimeter, see where the walkers are moving or if they're moving at all anymore," Rick ordered with confidence.

"Walkers?" T-Dog wondered aloud, then tilted his head with a look of bemused acceptance.

The young Korean commented, "I've just been calling them geeks. Better than lame-brains…" Everyone looked at him with some amount of amusement, "But I like walkers. It's, uh… accurate."

There was quiet as everyone took that as their cue to spread out and look over the ledges. Daryl edged back to where he'd thrown the vial, finally took in more than just the massive herd. The cop was right to ask if they were moving, some of them were. There was a pile of dead pressing against each other in front of the store entrance, as if absently still trying to follow a prior order they didn't know the reason for. But here and there, the dead were distracted into following a trail going around the corner towards the tank. Like sheep from different herds, randomly separating to follow their kin. Still there were a few aimlessly walking on the street between their building and a construction gate blocking the street, as if distracted and uncertain where to go. Sometimes, if the individuals edged close enough, they joined the mass at the doors or the movement towards the tank. Herd mentality, he supposed. Though less intelligent than cattle.

A look around the roof showed the others walking around a little before hustling back towards the roof door. He stalked over too, almost silent on the gravel compared to the others. Grimes tilted up the brim of his hat with a sigh like he didn't expect good news, "Any openings?"

They looked at each other, some of them shrugging, but only Glenn seemed like he wanted to be hopeful, "The alley over at that corner isn't as heavy. I think they're starting to walk out of it. They're coming out onto that street."

T-Dog shook his head, "There's more comin', man. From the parallel street, they just keep following each other in."

Jacqui agreed, having crossed to the connected building with Andrea, "Seems to me they're all shuffling along in a big circle thanks to your horsing around," she concluded with a nod to the Sheriff.

The man's mouth twitched like he was repressing a smile, then he looked towards those who hadn't spoken, most muttering agreement. Daryl remained quite by habit, but then Rick caught his gaze and held. It was a little insistent, but felt almost gentle. He found himself speaking without realizing he was going to, "A slow circle. The side over there, with the construction, it's a bit slower. But they still wander after the ones movin' that way. And they're still tryin' ta get in the first floor too."

"Construction zone," their new found leader repeated, his body language becoming more alert, "They have any vans over there?"

"Yeah," Daryl returned while nodding, realizing the man had probably pinpointed the way many people could use a single vehicle to get out.

Rick smiled and bobbed his head back, "They'll keep the keys on site, that's good."

"How's that good? We can't even reach the ground floor!" the injured black man complained.

Grimes exuded confidence when he replied, "There's ways around the dead."

He didn't know why, but the phrase sent a shiver down Daryl's spine. From the reaction of a few people, he could tell he wasn't the only one. In the sudden silence, Merle let out an inappropriate laugh, "Hoo hoo hoo! Boy, you people are in some hot water now! Officer Friendly's got a plan, but not all y'all gonna survive it! Heh heh…"

Morales gave the hick a dirty look and Jacqui sneered, but T-Dog couldn't resist responding, "Better than lettin' your cracker ass mess around while more and more dead pile on our backs." Daryl's older brother very maturely hocked up a wad of phlegm and spat towards his victim, who only raised a lip and shook his head in disgust.

The Sheriff called attention back to himself easily without raising his voice, "I'm sure you've come across this, even if you haven't thought of it yet. I woke up in a hospital a few days ago," and continued on blithely before anyone could respond to that bombshell, "and it was surrounded by dead bodies. I mean, the truly dead, not walkers. A man I met, Morgan, and I only noticed when we went back for supplies, but there were no walkers around, save the ones trapped in rooms and unable to leave. The ones in town avoided the place, even at night." Here he raised his eyebrows and looked at them expectantly, wanting someone to fill in the blank.

Daryl was still half caught on the fact that this man had apparently _slept_ through the bloody apocalypse, but only one answer came to him right away. He kept his mouth shut, waiting as a few people looked dumbstruck and others glanced around before finally Glenn answered, "Uh, there was nothing living to eat?"

No food. Exactly what the hunter was thinking. You hunt a carnivore, you gotta think like one. Rick was nodding again, "That's right. And what's more, when we went into town with the wind at our backs, the scent carried over. We found no more undead until we turned into the wind. So we'll have to disguise our scent."

Andrea was looking at him with a frown, not seeming to understand, "There's a perfume department on the fifth floor?" Daryl already knew where this was going, and didn't like the thought one bit. Made disgustingly perfect sense though.

The Sheriff calmly began to assign tasks again as Merle began to laugh. The dumbshit may not hunt all that much anymore, but he still knew where this was going. Rick asked for rubber gloves, long coats to cover everyone, and whatever kind of face shield they could find. Morales, Jacqui, Andrea, and T-Dog followed the directions while Glenn looked on in confusion and Daryl simply refused to be told what to do. Bully for them, apparently it just left them with a more dangerous task.

Sly blue eyes pinned them before they try to could escape. "Think we could get a single walker through the first floor door?"


	3. T-LL -T T- TH- FR-GS

There's a singing high of sweet victory in his veins as the moving van chugs along the freeway. He has a vague worry for the barely half full gas tank, but otherwise, Rick is completely fine getting the Hell out of Atlanta. He's probably not quite close enough to try his CB radio yet to Morgan at the farm house, but he's fairly certain Morales and the group will invite them along. The rescue and escape essentially makes them even, not that Rick really needs a share of the loot. Morgan and he had stocked up before they ever left King County. Both men had agreed that joining up with other people would be the preferred goal. A glance in the rear view mirror makes him smile once more.

Morales is in the passenger seat next to him, but Andrea and Jacqui are grinning and giggling where they sit behind the chairs, patting the largest duffles they could find for all their department store goods. T-Dog is resting against a side wall, looking utterly relaxed despite his bruises and the bumpy ride. At the end Merle is laid out, groaning like a dying man while coming down from his high and his brother stands over him rolling his eyes as he leans opposite T-Dog. The only one missing is Glenn, but he knows the way home and Rick has no doubts such a fast car will get him there easy.

Around ten minutes later, Rick squints into the heat haze when he thinks he spies movement up ahead. It can't be. That's just… His smile turns too wide, goes a little goofy. "You've gotta be kidding me," he utters absently, already slowing down and letting the van drift.

"What is-" Morales starts, then sees what Rick does and laughs, "Oh my God." At this the people in the back finally realize they've lost speed and look to the front. Andrea is quick to ask what's going on, but it's soon obvious as Rick pulls up behind a surprisingly calm horse. The reins are dragging, but all the tack is still in place and as they come alongside, she seems to bob her head in greeting.

The former Deputy laughs and finally parks, leaving the engine running. Despite his sore muscles, he hops out with energy and is grateful that the beast lets him approach. The mare seems to recognize him and accepts him scratching her behind the jaw, cooing at her like a lovestruck boy. Morales gets out behind him, still laughing incredulously before asking, "Well, cowboy, you look like you wanna keep her. Not sure how she'd do in the van though."

Rick can hear a muffled conversation in the vehicle and decides on a whim to ride the rest of the way to the farm. It confirms what he knew in his heart the moment he saw her in her paddock. He wanted to keep her. Animals are going to be hard to get for a while, until the zombies die out, and somehow this lucky horse managed to make her way out of the jaws of death. Literally. "Think I'll ride. There's a trailer back where I left my friends. I think it's worth it."

The Hispanic family man nods with good natured humor, "Alright, we can do that. We've already been gone so long another hour hitching up a trailer is no trouble for the mare that brought you to our rescue."

The amnesiac waves back and starts to test the tack, brings the reins back up over the horse's head; Morales climbs up behind the wheel while T-Dog is helped over into the passenger seat by the women. They must've elected him up front as the most in need of a smooth ride. Just before Grimes can mount up, a loud whooping starts a ways down the road South. It only takes a glimpse of something red in the heat to confirm it's Glenn. Rick and most of the gang sigh in relief, glad that he made it out on his own.

The Challenger's car alarm is so loud it echoes even in the flat land around them and then the only thing that keeps the group smiling is that the closer it gets the more they can hear the Korean man hollering with glee. Rick shakes his head, a prank already forming in his mind and making him smirk. The young man must go by them at at least 70 miles an hour, and even faster after he manages to wave goodbye.

"Hey Morales?" he asks just before the driver's door closes, "Pass me my bag?" The scavenger leader nods and it's given over in only a few seconds. The officer digs past his water bottles, lands on the radio, quickly grabs it up and tunes in. With several hours of riding under his belt, he feels comfortable enough to swing into the saddle one handed and gets the mare trotting before trying his device. Behind him the van follows like a bulky protective detail, "Morgan, can you hear me?" Gets five seconds of static in return and tries again, "Morgan, Duane, you fellas listening?"

The response is immediate so they weren't but a few steps away, "' _Can hear you, Rick. -utting out a -it. But we can -er you._ "

He feels a bit ridiculous, but he can't drop his smile. Despite the drama and the risks… This has been a good day, "Negative on Atlanta. Found some good people though. Got one kid coming your way fast in a red Dodge Challenger. Why don't you head South and catch that boy speeding?"

A moment later when Morgan responds, Rick can tell the man was chuckling just seconds ago, " _No -blem. I'll remind -of the speed li-._ " And before he lets go of the communicator, Rick can hear the police vehicle's whoop of a siren making him laugh in return. It only took two days for them to be on the same page, connecting like long lost friends in spite of the dangers around them. The cowboy slaps the radio to his belt and gives a short ' _hyah_ ' of encouragement to push his horse from an easy trot into a canter; both animal and man happy to move freely down the road.

The open lanes are a godsend after the crowd of bodies and heavy smell of death in Atlanta. Rick thinks back on their escape, his slapdash mad plan that had somehow- _somehow-_ gotten them all out alive. Taking charge comes naturally to him, but he can't lose the insecurity that every choice he makes isn't the best because he's not _fully informed._ His lack of memory hasn't seemed to be a hindrance so far, but he's only been awake less than a week.

When Glenn had led Rick and Daryl down to the first floor stairwell to a chorus of moans and groans the two men had acted like hissing cats. Wary of not only him, but each other as well. Somehow that changed over the course of a couple hours. With a few simple commands, Rick and Glenn had managed to get a single walker through, while Daryl made a single hit kill. It'd been so easy… But Rick had known the next part wouldn't be.

They'd managed to get the body up one story before meeting up with the rest of the group where Deputy Grimes revealed a risky endeavor. The other scavengers had looked at him like he was insane, but when no one had anything better, Daryl had finally glanced up and said it could work. He'd called Rick crazier than a mad dog, but backed him up. That had shifted the tide. Glenn drew a map of the streets on the floor, placed the fire escape, their route, where people on the roof should be. The others had gotten excited, despite a former _pizza boy_ doing the strategizing. There'd been a minor hiccup when Rick said they'd have to find another kind of distraction before coming back, but the idea of finding either an emergency vehicle with a siren or simply a car alarm to distract the waves of the dead from their exit had gotten everyone on board again.

The Korean man hadn't exactly been thrilled to realize that he was likely the best candidate to go along with the 'Crazy Cowboy' and thanks to an awful remark from the bruised T-Dog, had vomited what little was in his stomach while getting _geared up._ Dressed in trench coats and protective facial gear, Rick had led the way in dismembering their 'organ donor' in order to paint himself and Glenn in the dead blood and guts. In an odd team-up, both Daryl and Jacqui had had the strongest stomachs and hadn't needed to break away from the job to breath through their nausea at any time. And in a fit of karma, Merle had wandered in, took one sniff and keeled over to throw his guts up. His withdrawals had made him extra sensitive, much to his victim's delight.

From there, the two disguised men had made their way down the fire escape and the rest had gathered on the roof. Rick had his Colt and saber while Glenn carried an axe, and Daryl handled the two hand guns and what little ammunition was left along with his crossbow as their protective shadow. When asked for items to make a distraction, Andrea had jokingly offered the toy department and been surprised by just how helpful it ended up. There weren't a lot batteries around, but there were a number of still useful objects: balls that lit up when they bounced or made noise, toy rifles with loud triggers, and a couple of whistles from the pet section.

The extra measures had come in handy, though Rick wouldn't have thought of them had Morales not mentioned that cloud burst they'd had the other day. He honestly hadn't been sure how much getting wet would affect the scent, and since Daryl hadn't been able to decisively answer either, they'd taken the extra step of gathering distractions. And _thank God_ for that.

Only halfway to the construction yard and the rain came down in a swift fury. It was both a relief to the disgustingly dressed men's senses and a stressful event. When one walker tried to take a bite out of Glenn the gig was up. With the help of Daryl's sharpshooting, the two on the ground were able to clear an arm's reach around themselves before the rest began their diversions. Clothes pins holding triggers shut, Morales and Andrea flung the noisy faux guns into the pack behind them while Jacqui rolled a couple balls down the less populated alleyway to disrupt the flow of the zombie circling. When one of the guns broke on impact from the high velocity drop, another managing to kill an undead on its way to the ground but lose the pin keeping it noisy, T-Dog limped over to the most distant corner with a whistle to pull the dead further away.

All in all, between Rick's saber, Glenn's ax and Daryl's shooting, they made it over the fence without a single close call. They picked the van with the best amount of gas, made sure it was empty, and then drove off to find another vehicle. Rick had given the group ten minutes at most to gather all of their supplies and make a path halfway down the fire escape. When Glenn spied the cherry red Dodge Challenger, he'd practically salivated over the vehicle and winced as Rick broke the passenger side window for him. Still, he was an excellent choice for driving the alarmed car. How he'd managed to come up around the opposite side of the tank from where they'd found the Challenger, even faster than Rick's direct line back he couldn't figure out at all. But the Korean steeled his nerves and managed to attract the majority of the horde, reversing in increments before speeding down a block and managing to keep them just behind him for as long as the group had needed to pack.

The others had created a decent assembly line, with a number of bags simply being dropped to the ground after a certain height since there was nothing breakable in them. Daryl, T-Dog, and Morales came down one at a time with some duffles, using a knife and blunt instruments to quietly kill the stragglers. Andrea and Jacqui followed soon after putting the last bags over the rails and Merle followed, cussing and spitting behind them while barely keeping his balance with both hands cuffed behind his back. They all hauled ass into the van and that was that. It took them less than a minute to load up all their goods, with no injuries in sight. The scavengers were all delighted by the turnaround, relieved laughter filling the hot air of the vehicle and gratitude given doubly so to Rick's planning.

The exhilaration of it all, of his plans seeing reality and the teamwork shown by that rag-tag group of people, still makes him smile even while he quickly tires on horseback. He thinks they might have gone straight down the road for about twenty minutes before they catch up to an interesting sight. The former cop chuckles and waves his hat in greeting.

Just ahead red and blue lights spin and flash on a black and white police cruiser, which is parked behind a cherry red speedster with its hood up. Rick slows his mare to a trot and picks up the sound of amusement in the vehicle behind him. Two African Americans are quick to arms but lower them at the cowboy's waving, and a certain boy of Korean heritage sheepishly comes around the hood as well.

Jones calls out as Rick comes into hearing range, "I send you to scout out the Refugee Center and you bring me a wake up call. You think we were just lazing around back at that farm?"

Grimes smirks back at him, "Well, had to get your attention somehow. Found some lost pups who need feeding up, so I hope you brought lunch." Duane laughs even as he rests a hand on his holstered pistol. The others begin to exit the van and it's probably the biggest crowd of living people the Jones have both seen since before their Missus died.

"Lunch? _Lunch?_ Well just for that, you're on clean up, _son._ " But Morgan is smirking back, and already popping the trunk of the cruiser. The milling scavengers had seemed wary of the armed men, but now excitedly step forward to see what kind of food is on offer. Only Merle stays out of view and Daryl on the outskirts of the group, seemingly torn between the two. Rick dismounts, gratefully catches a bottled water from Duane before eyeing the bowman behind everyone.

The hick obviously has an edge to him, something that spoke of fire and temper in his snappy remarks, but since he'd spied him just over his shoulder upon entering Atlanta, Rick has only seen a quiet competence to the man. His arms, shoulders, and chest are intimidating, and yet he hunches into himself when his brother is brought up. There's no doubt in his mind that the younger Dixon could be a powerful opponent, but what spoke more to him is the fact that Daryl rarely makes eye contact. That mess of contradictions intrigues Rick, more so than the other strangers.

He wonders if he had his memories, if he'd be able to tell more about the archer. As it is, the former Deputy raises a hand with two fingers and receives two kinds of chips for his trouble. The vending machines of King County had been good to them. Not that they hadn't found other goods, but when it comes to eating on the go, the nutritionally lousy snacks are a quick way to fill their bellies. Men and women circle together, greeting the father and son duo and introducing themselves before excitedly explaining their escape from the city over stale chips. Rick leaves them to it after a few acknowledgements and walks around to Daryl.

He has both hands wrapped around his crossbow strap, watching the approach from under his lashes and a stubborn look to his face. Grimes offers him a choice of the two bags without comment and an open expression. The bowman finally looks at him, then grabs the Doritos and digs in like it's his first meal in a week. Rick hopes it's not that bad back at their base, that they're not struggling as much as this scavenger group seemed to be after just one full day away from their camp.

Ripping open the Lays bag, the amnesiac quietly eats with his fingertips and drinks a little more water. He can see that the man's clothes are deceptively baggy and while his exposed arms are strong with muscle, there's actually next to no fat on him anywhere. Daryl's lost enough weight to make his cheekbones prominently sharp. Before the apocalypse, the younger man had probably been comfortably filled out, strong from hunting but a bit of beer weight to him from evenings with friends. Rick has a vague thought that he might like to see the man in tighter clothes, to see if he's just as much the lean, mean hunter that his arms and attitude promises.

Clearing his throat to ignore the first almost _sexual_ thoughts he's had since losing his memory, Rick asks, "How's he doin'?" with a nod to the van and the older Dixon within.

"S'fine," Daryl murmurs lowly, "Passed out a ways back. Probably be out of it 'til we hit camp." The archer has finished his bag already, crumpling and tossing it before licking at his fingers to clean them of the red dust. Finishing half the water, Rick passes it over automatically. His companion pauses with just a bit of… suspicion? No, _caution_ , Rick decides. The ragged man is wary of his kindness and that pains his heart a little. It could be habit developed after the world went to Hell, but somehow he doubts it. Maybe he still has his cop instincts despite the lack of remembered experiences; he's almost positive this man was hurt badly at some point. When Daryl lets their eyes meet and connect for longer than a second, he finally asks, "You gonna join up with us?"

Grimes quirks a soft smile, "Sure. Why not? Ain't got no where else to be."

But the redneck purses his lips and goes still, his face is pensive, "S'not exactly… It's not a great camp."

Sharp blue eyes read the man's closed off body language easily. Someone back at base doesn't like the hunter before him, that much he can tell. Not wanting to make him defensive, the officer asks lightly, "Heard it's in a quarry? Maybe not the best setup for defenses."

Daryl just grunts, looks off in the distance with a shrug, "There's another cop there. Grade-A asshole who runs the place. Me 'n Merle just stuck around 'cause a numbers. We'd kill each other if we stayed alone too long." Rick hums in acknowledgement and curiosity. Merle definitely has a foul temper, and his younger brother at least has an edge to him. He wonders if both could get explosive enough for murder or if it was an exaggeration. Strange how before the world ended, that wouldn't have been something Rick had ever taken seriously. "But we weren't gonna stay forever anyway. Shane's got people thinking the _gover'ment_ gon' come save 'em."

Here he meets Rick's eye again, assessing if he was of the same mind and giving a tiny nod when the cowboy shows open concern. "Guess that means he doesn't have any plans to move, huh?" They share a knowing look without the need for a verbal confirmation. That means the camp and the people there need to be moved to a defensible position. Though they need proper motivation. And all at once, Rick is glad to have met Daryl. This strange connection between the two of them, built on a rickety bridge of trust in a madcap plan to save everyone, is starting to feel familiar in a world full of strangers. Speaking of… Grimes assesses the group once more.

They've whiled away a good ten minutes, adrenaline easing from everyone's blood and the food in their bellies relaxing them further. They probably put a dent in the bottled water supply, but those were never meant to last and it's damn hot out. The mare has been accepting Duane's hand for the time being, keeping still and letting the boy pour water on her neck. Rick frowns when he notices the rest of the scavengers are fairly unalert. Only Daryl and Glenn seem to scan their surroundings with any frequency while at rest, and Glenn probably does it because he never quite forgets his fear. That'll wear him out one day, age him before his time. Meeting Morgan's eye, he finds consensus in the other man's face.

Rick clears his throat to get their attention, interrupting their tired banter, "Best we get moving to the farm for y'all fall over. We'll hitch the trailer and get you guys back to camp before supper." He nods once at Daryl, who quickly passes an empty plastic bottle back to Rick before hopping up into the van. Everyone starts to shuffle along again, agreeing but not moving with much urgency. Is it just relief that they're alive? Exhaustion? Or are they that… naive? It might not be the right word, but there's certainly a lack of self-preservation to the group save Daryl and Glenn that concerns him. Empty bottles make their way back into the cruiser's pack, and Rick returns his with a quick word, "Probably not dangerous except to themselves."

Jones gives him an understanding nod and a glance to his son. That the amnesiac understands loud and clear: his first friend and ally wasn't going to be trusting such unprepared people with his boy. Rick sighs and collects his mare from Duane with a fist bump for the energetic child. He absently thinks he should name the horse soon, but in his tired state he can't think of anything more clever than 'Lady Luck'. He'll put it on the back burner and focus on keeping his seat while they caravan back to the farm.

Closer to twilight than any of them really liked, the three vehicles and horse make the turn off to an unnamed deserted farm. Morgan, Duane and Rick quickly go to work like a well oiled machine while the others tiredly exit their van. A quick assessment leads the trio to decide on moving their gear from the police cruiser to the farm's old pickup truck. It's a bit rusted in places, but Morgan assures Rick that it's a modern enough model not to be a complete gas hog, while still being incredibly easy to fix and find parts for. When they begin hauling their bags into the truck, Morales decides to rally his troops and do what they can to help.

"Well, Rick's no expert on hooking up trailers," Morgan smirks back at the former Deputy, but only gets a huffy eye roll in response. It'd taken about twenty-four hours for the African American duo to find a way to gently tease Rick about his amnesia. Sometimes he managed to surprise them with what he remembered, but not often. And hooking up trailers wasn't in his immediate recall. "I can manage, but if one of you have more experience, be my guest. We'll need a couple people to haul hay and feed into the trailer for the horse too. Duane and I cleared the house though, nothing left there."

Initially, the Hispanic looks around at his people and is about to shrug when Daryl stalks toward the trailer hitch with a muttered, "I got it." Morales smiles and the rest seem pleasantly surprised, but it's all unnoticed while the redneck has his back to them. Rick gives him a nod of gratitude when he passes to get another bag, and is only a little surprised to receive an acknowledging nod back, though it's so slight it might've been mistaken for stepping in a pothole.

The cowboy smiles at Andrea and Jacqui who are each reaching into the cruiser for a couple crates of bottled drinks, and mentions aloud, "Be nice if someone could get the last of the gas outta this one an' into the truck. Feel like I've sucked up enough fuel these past few days to run an eighteen wheeler."

He gets a couple chuckles and T-Dog gesturing good naturedly, "I got you," as he grabs up one of the gas cans and tubing. Many hands make light work, and it's not long before the police vehicle is empty and the truck half full of crates and bags. The bruised man is emptying the canister into the truck while Morgan grabs the keys and Daryl paces on alert in a makeshift perimeter that's closest to the trailer, when it happens.

A sudden yelp startles everyone into looking at the barn, only Daryl and Rick in position and quick witted enough to set off towards the noise. Somehow in the hustle of getting shit done, the officer had lost track of Glenn. The Asian has fallen on his ass, crab walking back as quick as he can from a shabbily garbed walker that's shuffled in from the back of the open building. Rick's running ahead of the hunter but an arrow still flies quicker. The dead man collapses from an expertly placed projectile through the eye and Glenn sighs in relief. Overrunning the corpse past the half open barn doors, Rick scans the rear of the building and finds no other threat. But the rescuers are both frustrated, sharing a single look and a few adrenaline fueled puffs.

Stomping by the grounded young man, Daryl kicks the walker and retrieves his arrow to say with clear frustration, "Don't you got any damn _weapons_ on you?"

Rick silently agrees and joins the archer while Glenn sputters but can't reply with any rebuttal. The back fields and pastures are currently clear. A single undead isn't much trouble, they're very lucky there isn't a small group of them following a trail like they do. Both men frown and finally the kid manages to speak properly, "I was just trying to get some of that food, for the horse, you know? I couldn't hear him comin' and he surprised me. That's all."

Glancing at the nearby trough and feed bag on the floor, the amnesiac supposes all those oats and grains rattling in the tin would make a racket. He sighs and offers, "I'll stay with him, you can go get the trailer hitched." Daryl bounces a short nod and stalks off, so Rick asks, "How much you got in the trailer already?"

To his benefit, the younger man gets immediately back to task filling the feed bag while he talks, "Ah, there was already a bale of hay in it. So I grabbed an extra bridle and saddle, a couple blankets, a bucket of brushes, and there's a full canvas of oats. This is the second one, it was only half full so I'm filling it up with what was left in the couple stalls."

Blue eyes observe the barn, recalling that there had been stalls set up for two horses, not one. There hadn't been a corpse in the barn, so it must've gotten free of its paddock or else the land was bigger than it looked. He eyes the tall bales opposite them and wonders, "There room for much more? Should grab more hay and what water we can from the pump."

Glenn stops scooping for a second with a thoughtful expression, "I-I think so. I mean, yeah. It's a two horse trailer, so we can just put the hay where the free slot is and water on top." Rick grunts in response, and starts to heft one of the bales onto his shoulder. The ball-capped kid scoops up the last of the feed and groans to lift the bag that's probably half his weight. The bale's honestly a bit much for a man just out of a coma, but he grits his teeth and takes it, even more sweat joining the stains down his chest and back.

They emerge to see the trailer noisily latching tight and Daryl spinning something that looks a bit like a carjack into the highest position. Morgan hops out of the truck, lowly calling back, "She all set, Daryl?" while scanning Rick and Glenn for injury.

The former Deputy can just spy the women and T-Dog sitting on the cube van's bumper, resting, and Duane standing alert between the vehicles: one hand on the horse's bridle, the other on his gun. The hunter grunts a quick affirmative to Morgan, but watches Rick pass him by to the open trailer. With sweat running down him and soaking his head under the Deputy hat's brim, he can't help but wonder what the man sees. Someone capable? Or just a tired old man? He rounds the corner and manages to catch dark blue eyes staring low on his body before hastily looking away. A spark of pleasure flashes through Rick's chest. Or maybe he's just a man looking at another man. While shoving the hay into the empty space, the curly haired cowboy takes a moment's thought to wonder. It certainly stoked his ego, to be physically appreciated. He's not sure whether or not it affects his libido much, but it is nice.

"Morgan, we got another container somewhere, something big? Be nice not to lose all our bottled water in one go on the mare." Walking back around while he talks, Rick scrapes his hands together to dust off the dead grass and grime clinging to him. It's not Morgan who responds though, he's already looked to Morales who seems to have an answer.

Following his dark eyes to the Hispanic, the man knocks a fist against the thick blue plastic of a barrel that seems to have been hooked up to the barn's rain gutters, "It's heavy, but it'd work well." Rick hums in tired thought. Heavy means it's already full. It also means it'll take some doing, but at least Glenn had lowered the trailer's ramp already. They confirm it can roll without leaking from the lidded top and then the two colored men strategically manage it up and into place by the hay. The amnesiac is silently glad he didn't have to help with that part; he's feeling the strain of a long day's work on a weak body. He collects the mare from Duane, thanking the boy and soothing the animal among all the busy people. Rick isn't entirely sure how to get a large animal on a trailer that doesn't want to go, but is quickly relieved to find the tired beast simply trudges along after him and walks inside all on her own. He secures the gate and door, then comes around the front of the trailer to find everyone waiting on him. Or on his word?

"Well let's get going to your quarry, guys. Move out!" _That's it._ The tired, sweaty people finally hustle out of eagerness to get home, Daryl still watching their backs as the scavengers get into the van and Glenn practically sprinting into his speedy distraction. Rick sticks with Morgan and Duane, hopping up into the passenger seat after the boy sits in the middle of the bench. The engine starts without any trouble, but considering the state of the world Grimes wonders if that means he missed someone working on it at some point instead of assuming it was in perfect condition. Once they're on the road the companionable silence turns expectant.

Finally the kid becomes too impatient, "Well? Ain't you gon-"

"Duane!" His father quickly scolds and Rick smiles, already having witnessed the father-son banter in his couple days with them.

"Sorry. Are you going to tell us more about them?"

Sighing, he catches their dark eyes for a moment before confirming, "They didn't leave out anything about our escape, even told you about Merle which was honest of them. But yeah, I can tell a little more." Looking ahead at the caravan heading further away from Atlanta, he tries to process all he's seen and heard into true information. "They were unprepared first of all. Despite the number of people, they only had a couple guns and Andrea doesn't even know how to _use_ her's. Don't know if that counts for all of them, but I'd say the only ones comfortable with firearms would be Daryl and Merle. Think Merle might've been military at one point, but he's a real jackass when he's high so I can't be sure."

"Drug of choice?" Morgan interrupts.

Rick shrugs at him, "Cocaine. His brother tossed it off a roof." The driver nods, but says no more.

His son does instead, "Didn't they have any other weapons?"

Frowning in return, the cowboy answers, "Not really, son. Think there might've been a couple knives among them but only for practical use. Except for the Dixons, er Daryl and Merle again. When I got there, I had them collect up the store's firemen axes. Other than that there wasn't much to get. Kids section had some sporting goods, bats and the like, which they took a couple, but…" The Jones grimace in turn at him. Yeah, he knew how they felt about blunt instruments. Something with an edge worked that much quicker and would save your life that much faster.

Adjusting his own sword belt, Rick smirks at the memory of where he got it and the bag of collectables in the trunk bed right now. "Glenn, the Asian kid, he's usually the one who makes runs for supplies, by himself surprisingly enough." He shares a glance with his comrades, wondering what they make of that before continuing, "He told me it was the first time he brought a group along and it all went to shit. He may not carry a gun or have much experience with weapons, but he's fast, adaptable, and not afraid to try. Give him some lessons, weaponry, medical, engineering, he'll be a Hell of a survivor."

"I dunno," Duane started then paused at the annoyed look from his dad, "I mean, I'm not sure about Glenn. He's cool, and pretty funny, but kind of dumb too."

"You mean the car alarm?"

"Yeah, that."

Smiling down at the serious boy, the tired man hopes the children at the quarry will be around his age to remind the kid what it means to really play, "He didn't know how to turn it off, hence a couple lessons. But he drove fast, which was good since it would warp the sound from a distance. And he didn't have to, but he stepped up and took a big risk being our distraction out of Atlanta. He took a risk when he rescued me from the herd in the alley too. I think if he makes it, he'll be a good man and a good leader, willing to take chances for his people. Time and experience will only help that."

Morgan just hummed in response, tilting his head thoughtfully. He didn't think out loud much. When he had an opinion, he said it and didn't say any more until you'd manage to change it. Still, if he disagreed outright they'd know that too. "And Morales? Seemed a good sort."

"Family man," Grimes nodded in agreement, "Kind of a leader for this bunch at the moment because he's more diplomatic. I imagine he had a lot of practice between his son and daughter." The boy between them looks up at him in interest, but doesn't ask. He's a smart lad, probably realizing that Rick would know as much as him about the kids at that point. Moving on, "Don't know much about Jacqui, but she's a good sort. Not squeamish and doesn't take anybody's bullshit."

"She's too thin," Duane adds, frowning in concern. It's a fair judgement, but perhaps Jacqui is only the most obvious since she was wearing a shirt without sleeves and slim pants.

Feeling a strange combination of pride in the boy's observation and sorrow that a kid that young had learned to look for such things, Rick nods and quietly mentions, "They all are. They've lost weight, can see it in how they're clothes don't fit right."

The sky outside is still blue, but the sun's almost set, old pollution giving them a hazy red sunset on their left. In the dusk, Rick can just make out a green sign that mentions a quarry and the van in front of them begins to slow. That must mean Glenn has reached the turn off. Sighing in relief, the aching man can't wait to get out of the truck even though that just means more work. Eventually, when things are hauled into place, when food is cooked and a watch set up, then can he rest. Still, he can't wait to get back behind some sturdy walls too. This camp isn't going to let him sleep tight and he knows none of the males in this vehicle will settle for less.

"What about Daryl?" Morgan thinks to ask before they end up with no privacy once more. His son perks up, shaking himself to keep from nodding off and amusing both men.

The officer lifts one elbow up to the car door, rests his cheek against his knuckles to look back at their driver, "He helped you with the trailer. What'd you think of him?"

Morgan hums lightly, "Quiet. Didn't talk much, just did the work." There's a moment of silence that Rick means to drag a little more out of the man. He knows Morgan doesn't mind the hunter, so he must have a reason for asking. It only takes a few more seconds for the strategy to work, "Obviously he doesn't like his brother taking recreational drugs during the _apocalypse_ , but I noticed your fancy bracelets are missing. Guess you cuffed his brother? How'd he take that?"

Grimes thinks back, tries to remember the body language because that was more than half his conversation with the broody man. He watches their caravan slow around the curve of the abandoned quarry, heading further into it and closer to a wooded area. "I think he's seen it before. He kinda retreated into himself. Merle's probably a long-time troublemaker. I don't think he liked it much, but he wasn't surprised and he didn't go soft on him once he was cuffed. Gut kicked him for trying to bribe him with the coke before he tossed it."

Duane snorts a soft laugh, likely picturing it. Morgan gives half a smile and mutters, "Good man." The former Deputy knows the comment isn't for the violence, but the bribe denial and gesture of 'tough love' that he's a bit of an advocate for. It's how Duane learned the rules of gun safety with him and Rick, and the officer can imagine that's how Morgan would treat any juvenile behavior.

The cars all roll even slower and that's when Rick realizes he can hear something. It's faint, but it's not the gurgle of the undead, it's the rise and fall of human language. They've reached the camp. Duane grins and gets more alert, excited though the men trust him to stick close until given permission. Never know if they might just be unwelcome. They never did get the total number of people there at the quarry, just a general impression of 'open to strangers'.

The second the vehicles stop, Rick opens the door with a hand on his Colt to scan ahead. There are even more vehicles, different makes and colors, some empty, some loaded, but all parked in a row leading towards an RV. He's on the wrong side to see people, but there's a man with a rifle on top of the camper, and he can spy shoulders and elbows moving towards the returnees. Daryl rolls the back gate up so that the women can scramble out excitedly before he too goes out. Already he can hear shouts of relief and glee. A young woman sobs out, "Andrea!" while a couple children cry for their father.

Jones tells his boy to get out on Rick's side and together they come around the front, their young one just a step behind. The scene to the left of the van looks like a soldier's family reunion from war. A woman, girl and boy cling to the Hispanic leader with tears of relief. Andrea is hugging another blond with a distinct family resemblance, but when the girl spies the hunter Dixon she calls out to him, grabbing him in a surprise hug as well and thanking him repeatedly. While Andrea just looks bemused, Daryl is distinctly uncomfortable, making Rick curl a hand around his mouth to restrain any chuckles. Ahead of them Jacqui, T-Dog and Glenn are exchanging more subdued greetings with the campers that came forward: an older man with a white beard under a fisherman's cap, two dark haired men, a woman with light, short hair, and what look like a woman and son with dark hair behind them. Though the latter two aren't really paying them any attention anymore, talking softly to each other now.

Brow furrowing, Rick wonders if they lost someone recently. He figures Glenn would've mentioned if someone died thanks to Merle's mistakes, and everyone had treated this run for supplies as success snatched from the jaws of death. When Daryl escapes the estrogen tangle and the Morales family starts to calm is when the cowboy realizes Glenn has pointed them out to the more broadly built of the brown haired men. He straightens up for any negotiating they may have to make when it hits him. He _recognizes_ this man who has stuttered to a halt before him.

It's the same face he'd seen before waking up. The man who brought him flowers. Except instead of concern, he's now gone pale. Like he'd seen a ghost, Rick thought with detached brevity.

The familiar stranger breathes a shaky, "Rick," that catches everyone else's attention. He knew it. He does know this man. But there's a gnawing empty blackness where his memories rest, a frustrating disassociation that makes it difficult for Grimes to register the rest of his surroundings now.

Until a little boy cries out, "Dad!" in such a desperate way he can't help looking down. The dark haired boy has careened away from his mother towards him and Rick could swear his entire body knows him. He has no memory, doesn't remember his own son, but his hands shake and his heart beats, " _Carl._ "

He drops to his knees, accepting the boy in his arms and gripping him tightly while the kid sobs into his neck. Blue eyes water in turn so he buries his face in the straight dark hair to breath him in. _This is his son._ This little bundle of fragile skin and bones, and it frightens him so much he looks up helplessly at the familiar stranger for something, anything. The man reaches a trembling hand towards them, but is too slow to resolve his own feelings. Rick feels Morgan's hand on his shoulder, then feels more than can see his friend smiling down on him.

And the woman he'd assumed was Carl's mother comes from behind the man he's supposed to know to drop practically on top of father and son. She's shaking, not crying, but shaking terribly like she's in shock and muttering his name like a mantra. Morgan has let him go and suddenly all he wants is that steadying anchor back in place. This woman has to be Lori, and she seems relieved to see him. But even without the knowledge of the divorce papers nestled into his heart, he knows the news of his amnesia is going to cause heartache. It may even seem like he's died all over again to them. Nausea that he hasn't felt since he'd filled his stomach full of water comes back to him, and he carefully pulls Carl to arm's length which manages to give him space from Lori as well in the process.

"I have to tell-" he swallows hard and digs deep for that core of steel he'd found inside the first time he'd killed a walker, "I have to tell you three somethin'. When I woke up, I… Not all of me came back. I don't have any memory from before the coma."

Rick focuses on Carl first and it breaks his heart. His son is the picture of devastated and he can't help drawing him back in to hug him tight as the boy sobs again. He knows it can't have sunk in that fast, that the emotional response is more a combination of fear and confusion, but the paternal instinct he's been exercising on Duane makes it easy to pet his hair and soothe him. To his left his ex-wife has fallen over, whispering confused denials and shaking her head as finally some tears fall. The man still barely standing before them is obviously torn. He looks like the ghost has vanished and he's decided too late he wanted it to be real. At the same time he's watching Lori and Carl fall apart helplessly, making Rick wish he had an answer for him. Something to ease that vulnerability.

Above his head, Grimes is vaguely aware that the scene is an object of sympathetic stares and other helpless onlookers. It's not like he could have done this in private, since he hadn't even known they were at the quarry to begin with. He dares to glance up and meets wide blue eyes first: Daryl appears very young when he's stunned still like that. Andrea and the girl, her sister?, are just starting to turn away with a confused sadness. On his left Morgan and Morales have quietly started gesturing people to give them space. Even as Rick reaches for the first familiar face he'd ever known, he's thinking absently of thanking the other men for their cool heads later.

Carl has stopped sobbing so loudly, but instead he trembles like a leaf and is starting to breath too quick. When the other man falls to his knees in front of Rick, leaning in to let him grab his shoulder, the former Deputy speaks hoarsely, "I saw you before. You brought me flowers."

A wretchedly sobbed laugh escapes the tanned man, full lips shaking around the sound even as he smiles and nods. He returns the gesture and claps Rick's shoulder, "I-I'm Shane. Shane Walsh."

Smiling back, Rick pets his son one more time then asks, "Shane. Could you help me with Carl?" Because there's no doubt in his mind that this man so strongly affected can't be anything less than a good friend of his. A good friend who saw to his family, got them to safety and was doing the best he could in the end of days.

But the younger Grimes goes suddenly still and backs up a step so blue eyes meet blue. God, he looks so much like the face he sees in the mirror it's incredible. Carl's little face is sorrowfully hopeful, "You know my name?" Shane presses his free hand to the boy's back and slowly lets go of Rick so he can focus on the shattered kid before him.

Nodding, the new father explains, "Found your homework. You're pretty good at math aren't ya?" He gets a snotty laugh in turn, but he's relieved that his son accepts Shane holding him as well so he can turn to his once-spouse.

"And you're Lorraine. Or Lori," he amends, watching the thin woman stare at him. She's gone quiet now, wide brown eyes doe-like, but not because they're beautiful. Because they look _frightened_. There's an itch in the back of his mind that thinks of why. Why both Shane and Lori had seemed so scared rather than relieved. It could be because nowadays when the dead come back they're a danger to everyone. But Rick's betting from the way he's seen his ex-wife and best friend glance at each other, that she's moved on and doesn't want anyone to know. He finishes his statement, "I know your name from some documents I found. In my old Army manual."

Those doe eyes are suddenly accompanied by a deathly pale complexion. She gets in one huge breath before she's scrambling to her feet and walking off. She doesn't get far, like she's hooked on a tether to them she suddenly stops, but doesn't turn or speak. Both Shane and Carl call for her in confusion, but get nothing. She hunches forward with her hands on her waist like she's going to be sick, and still nothing happens yet.

Rick decides to leave it alone. Obviously they had been amicable enough for her to be relieved he's alive, but their marriage was dead enough that she moved on to Shane fairly quick. The end of the world probably sped it up, maybe even narrowed her choice of future companions, but something about her reaction makes divorce seem inevitable. She'd given no defense, no immediate denial that spoke of a strong desire to return to him. Lori had spooked, walked away from her husband, son and lover like she couldn't handle him knowing she'd ever wanted to be divorced. If it had been a whim, a depressed thought that circled into a terrible option, this would be different. Her silence rang like guilt. She'd definitely thought about it long and hard; she'd wanted the divorce. And with that knowledge, Rick realizes he's fine with that. A taut string relaxes within and his whole body gives in to his exhaustion.

"So what's a guy gotta do to get a hot meal around here?" The question startles Carl, making him laugh again, but Shane can't seem to shake his worry. Brown eyes bounce between Rick and Lori, but his hug on the boy never loosens. Meeting his eyes for a small head shake and smile, his new-old friend silently tells him to leave it for now and is almost surprised that Shane understands him. Guess losing one's memory doesn't create new nonverbal cues.

Both men stand, Carl startled a bit as Shane hauls him up like a sack of potatoes. The playful man smirks as he says, "C'mon, let's go put this one on the barby, I'm sure there's enough meat on them bones to go around." The cannibal joke is in slightly bad taste given their daily struggles, but Rick just shakes his head while the boy squeals about them having squirrels for dinner instead. They head towards the center of camp, where a frail looking woman stirs a large camper pot of stew and is just starting to dish up bowls to the assembly line around her.

Behind them, he can see in his peripheral vision that Lori has reluctantly followed after them like she can't help herself. Well, guess even in the apocalypse you can't always pick your family.


	4. VAMANOS VATOS

_Holy shit._ Those two words kept cropping up over and over in his head again since last night's… revelation. And really, what else was there to say to all that? Just… _Holy shit!_ Right? That guy woke up from a coma in a goddamn hospital crawling with the dead-and no memory! He-he just moseyed on out of there, collecting a shit ton of supplies like he had any idea that the fucking world had _ended_ and helps out a father and son duo stuck in his old town, stole guns from a job he doesn't remember having, and later decided to check out Atlanta on a freaking _horse!_ Then randomly assists a bunch of strangers, trusting them with his own life. Which is just… Holy shit. Why the fuck had he ever thought the swordsman might be a good leader? The man was a goddamn fool!

Daryl can still picture that night in his head: the fire flickering over Rick's face as he slowly described how he'd survived less than a week without knowing who he really was, his son curled up close and Shane shut up and staring at him like he was the second coming of goddamn Jesus Christ. His wife- _his wife?!-_ had sat close as well, but seemed more out of it, off in her own head. Guess she was thinking about how she shouldn't have been foolin' around on her _amnesiac_ husband. Even Daryl, alert hunter that he was, almost missed that Morgan Jones fella walking the perimeter of the camp and coming back disappointed. He might not have noticed if the man hadn't stopped by Rick at the fire for a whispered few words.

The Jones set up camp closest to the RV and the cars, which didn't surprise him none. Merle and his tent was set up angled across the road and between the cars, RV, and backed against the first decent size tree. They were more comfortable separate from the flock, but closer to all of their getaway vehicles. And Daryl still slept outside most nights on a bedroll when he did sleep at all. No flimsy layer of polyester was going to save anyone from the undead. It just muffled the sound of their shuffling walk so's you can't tell where they're coming from.

Rick had looked reluctant to sleep in his woman's tent, eyeing it's position close to the woods and almost furthest from the cars, directly across from the barren center where everyone did their cooking and such. It was an idyllic little picture for camping, but goddawful for survival strategies. The hunter had no clue why Shane had let his little adulteress choose that spot. Probably thought they were actually safe for whatever moronic reason. Still the boy, Carl, seemed to be the cowboy's deciding factor and one tug from that little hand had the amnesiac warily following him. Daryl idly wondered whether he'd gotten any sleep that night.

Dark blue eyes narrowed on the tent across the encampment when the woman started to put her shoes on to exit. Rick's boots weren't on the outside. Probably slept in them. Dexterous fingers absently continued cleaning his crossbow which had seen a lot of action yesterday, while he studied the scowling woman. It wasn't an active expression; Lori wasn't looking at anyone in particular. Must not be pleased with whatever had been said in private. A part of him was insanely curious about it, not least because Rick had seemed interested in his company the other day, but another part was telling him not to be an idiot and leave well alone. He was the guy who had called Shane an asshole to the man who used to be best friends with him. Cowboy probably wanted nothing to do with him now.

Sighing out his nose, the hunter glanced over his shoulder at his older brother, still dead asleep in their tent. Knowing there was no waking the man after getting a little food in him last night, Daryl had stayed awake mostly, catching half hour cat naps at a time just like his body had trained to do when his no-good father was home. The task at hand finished too quick, so he set aside the bow and started on the Dixon's collection of knives. Rick may have had a lot of family drama going on at the time, but he still made a point of returning Merle's knife.

Which still left Daryl at a bit of a crossroads in his mind. A part of him wanted to take off to the woods again, despite the soreness of his body. He wanted to leave it all behind, quiet his mind and let the chips fall where they would. Another part, a smaller part, wanted to find something to do around camp, so he could… just be there, he supposed. If Rick needed anything. If Shane returned to being an ass or they blew up over banging the same woman. Something.

Movement from the Grimes' tent caught his eye. Their fearless leader emerged, fully dressed, the beginning of rings under his eyes and a stiffness to him that said exactly how much sleep he got last night. Daryl's teeth started to grind unconsciously. He scanned the rest of the camp until his squinting blue gaze landed on Shane. Didn't even realize what he was looking for until he saw it. The former Deputy was watching the Grimes couple too, but acting like he was trying not to. Watching Lori with something like want, and the amnesiac with angry guilt.

This camp was a powder keg.

Remembering the other problems this group had had before introducing an amnesiac into a love triangle, Daryl took in everyone else's positions as they gathered breakfast. That poor Carol woman had woken early, either habit or trying to get away from her abuser, likely both. She was serving up some powdered eggs from a shit frying pan, giving out tiny portions to all save the kids who got a couple more mouthfuls. Jacqui helped, but was eyeing sad-ol' Jim while the man walked around in more of a daze than usual. There were a couple other family units around their own fires, like satellites orbiting the central RV planet. That made him realize Ed was missing. Never liked the bastard, but he usually hovered over his women-folk. Daryl frowned, and wondered what he missed yesterday.

The sisters, Andrea and Amy, were talking to Dale, gesturing up at the canoe atop the RV. He hoped that meant they were real decent fishers and not just looking for a pleasure cruise. He could do with skipping squirrel meat for a night. The Morales unit was just off center from the main cooking fire, his woman cooking and him entertaining the little ones until it was ready. T-Dog wasn't out of his tent, but that probably meant he was still on bedrest. The others, the ones he hadn't bothered to learn the names for, were getting a bit later start. Lazy sum'bitches who mooched off the people doing runs and actual work.

Morgan joined Carol's serving line, giving her a friendly smile and waving his son ahead of him. Rick passed them by, skipping the line and heading straight for the other copper. Shit.

An uncomfortable prickle of adrenaline itched down Daryl's neck, spreading to his armpits and lower back where fear-sweat would start if he didn't calm down. There were so many things they could be talking about. A number of them could do with the Dixons. Hell, no one really said anything more about Merle's stupid stunt, but that was definitely grounds to ask them to move along. More like outright chase them out of camp. Not a hardship for the Dixon brothers, considering the slim pickings and lack of defenses around this place, but still… Being rejected wasn't a nice thing.

Daryl's stomach turned and he bit at his dirty thumb nail in anxiety, tasting metal and grease from the knives. He couldn't say he had a lot of ties to the people or the place, but it was the little things that made him want to stay anyway. Carl and the Morales kids watching in awe as he brought back that first string of game. Carol's little smile when he unobtrusively helped her haul clothes down to the lake without her husband noticing. Amy treating him like a hero when Andrea came back from the run, safe and sound. Rick… How Rick was kind and listened to others, and even trusted a no good white trash hunter like him to have his back, surrounded by the dead. If everyone didn't kick the Dixons to the curb, felt like there could be a place for him here.

Forcing his hand back to the task of cleaning and sharpening the small collection was hard, not least because there weren't actually that many knives to do. When he was done with that, he'd have to figure out what next. He didn't much feel like breakfast anymore, and taking off on a long hunt sounded even more appealing until he realized that would just leave Merle alone. And _that_ wasn't a good idea. A grunt of frustration escaped him and that's when the coppers finally started to move. Rick's gesture was open, entreating almost, while Shane became the picture of defensive. Shane's voice had risen for just a few words, not loud enough for Daryl to make it out, but getting the other's attention. He tried not to freeze when they came towards him.

No. Not towards him, just going up the road. Relief cooled his body and the fear ebbed a little. If they were fighting over the Dixons they'd avoid going near his tent. As it was, they were just going up the road a bit for privacy. Not far enough though, Daryl thought, which should've been clear. The men couldn't seem to wait to be out of earshot before they started up again. The redneck stayed where he was, meditatively going over his last knife as slowly as possible in the hopes they'd ignore him completely.

"I still don't see the point," Shane snarled, crossing his arms against the closeness of Rick's posture. They were nearly equals in height, so Daryl didn't think Rick was trying to loom. Not intentionally anyway. Maybe trying to construe familiarity. "There's been only one dead guy walking in all the time we've been here. We're doing fine."

"C'mon, _Shane_ ," the amnesiac returned, emphasizing the fellow Deputy's name and watching him closely, "You know this camp isn't sustainable. What are you waiting for?"

Walsh grumbled, turning away from those intense blue eyes in Daryl's direction. The hunter looked down and away, keeping his movements smooth as if he hadn't heard a word. With clear annoyance, Shane continued, "I done told you last night. We're waiting for the government. When they're looking for survivors we need to be in the open, easy to find just outside where the refugee center was. They'll pick us up, take us to safety."

"And just where do you imagine that is?" his so-called best friend replied dead quick. The Deputy looked at him angrily, so Grimes quickly added, "I'm serious, Shane. Talk to me. Tell me what you think the future holds."

As swift as a deer fleeing the smell of a predator, the ex-copper's expression changed from resentful to wistful, letting his arms drop. It threw Daryl for a loop and he had to look away, staring at his gleaming knife and finally deciding he could do no more without wasting his supplies. He carefully dried and sheathed the lot as Shane spoke, "Used to be Lori and I always tellin' _you_ that. The last conversation we had before the shoot out, you were telling me about some horrible thing Lori had said. And how she kept wanting you to 'speak'. 'Just speak'. Don't know all you'd say to her. But we'd always talk in the squad car." His quoted words held a different tone, not like he was mimicking a woman, but the man before him. Daryl wondered if this asshole used to be a different sort. If maybe he'd lost all his humor when his best friend died and the world went to shit. The only time he'd heard the man speak to entertain was rarely with Carl, and it sounded forced when he tried.

Inside the tent, Merle shifted with a groan, moving to cover his no doubt pounding head with his arm. Keeping the movement natural, Daryl turned towards his brother, almost away from the two nearby. He slipped the weapons into a couple different holsters as Rick recovered from the inability to remember, no doubt Shane's trip down memory lane was one-sided and all the more painful for it. "I'd like it if you could talk to me now. I know it ain't the same. We're not the same. The world ain't the same. You told me last night how and why you thought I was dead. Soldiers killed doctors. Some level of government poured napalm on civilians. Maybe somewhere they did better, maybe there are areas where the local governments saved them, but I don't think that's likely. They may've had the weapons and the fuel, but they're just people too. They need food, clean water, shelter…"

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl caught movement. The dark eyed man was shaking his head in denial, one hand running through his hair stressfully, "No man, you don't-you don't get it. They _failed us._ They killed their own people, innocent people looking for _safety_ , Rick!" Shane's voice raised in memory of the horror he'd witnessed. The frightened edge of it made Daryl freeze, cold sympathetic fear dripping down his spine. He hadn't seen Atlanta burn himself. Hell, no one could barely describe it. That undercurrent to Walsh's voice had him rethinking his idea of the man. "Someone has to pay for what those men did! They have to. Someone'll come looking for other civilians, rebuild on-on the military forts or something. They _owe_ us that. They _owe_ us, Rick."

Dixon bowed his head, considering and trying not to feel _too_ compassionate. Just because a man was desperate didn't give him the right to act as Shane did. Making unilateral decisions against group, like ignoring them when they wanted to post signs on the freeway to Atlanta. Leaving all the runners out to die just because he didn't want to leave the campsite. It's not like this place was anything special or hard to deconstruct. Still, Daryl grew up around hard men. Lotta stupid men too. People in horrible situations that could only think to do stupid things because it didn't occur to them to do otherwise, fixated on a certain goal no matter how irrational it becomes. Like getting their next fix despite how sick they were. Or revenge on the wrong person.

There had been almost a minute of silence before Grimes spoke again. He started softly, and only the hunter's finely honed senses allowed him to catch that low drawl. "They killed so many, probably people we knew who we'll never know if they're dead or alive again… But Shane… just because they do owe us for our loss, doesn't mean we're going to get it."

Glancing over, he spied the friends standing close and the amnesiac supporting the other with an arm along his shoulders. To Daryl's further surprise, Walsh's breathing hitched as he bowed his head and fidgeted with his hands, "I don't… I don't know what to do anymore, Rick." The ex-Deputy wiped his face, pressing hard on his eye sockets as if to restrain his emotions, still not meeting the blue eyes so close to him, "Our jobs, our food, our whole goddamn lives are just… just gone. Napalmed… Our whole world burned."

The cowboy shifted, holding onto Shane's neck with a small shake and waiting until he finally looked up at him. He gestured down the road at everyone still hovering over their meager breakfast, reluctant to start the day. "Look, Shane." When the man gave a half-hearted glance, the amnesiac pointed again, "No, really look at them. World's not gone. It's just got a little smaller. That's all. That's our world now. All those people are our world now. You got them organized, made sure they had safety and food and water."

Shane shook his head again, unable to see things as optimistically and dislodging the palm on his neck, "It won't last. So many people are already gone and just…" He took a breath, his hand wavering towards Rick but not connecting, "It's a fucking miracle you're here at all. I couldn't hear your heartbeat, brother, I swear, I don't-"

Grimes may have no memory, but he did have empathy. He grabbed the other's shaking fingers and pressed them to his own wrist, letting the man catch his pulse. Dark brown eyes startled wide, but softened in gratitude. Rick nodded and added, "It's okay. You wouldn't have made it out of there with my dead weight, you know. It'da got us both killed. Maybe Lori and Carl too without you there to help them."

A moment of silence carried until Shane dropped Rick's wrist and both stared over at the group of family and strangers before them, conveniently overlooking the Dixon's tent. Daryl started to feel the day's heat along his bare neck, the temperature promising to be another scorcher. He wondered what he would do for the following daylight hours. The camp mostly went on without his input, assuming he'd be hunting in the woods to stay away from everyone, but he didn't want to leave Merle to be his own worst enemy and come back to find him gone.

"We gotta talk to them, huh? Figure out our plan?" Walsh finally spoke, straightening up and returning to his more usual cocky cop posturing.

"Yeah," the cowboy nodded, hands going to his belt in a subconscious movement. He may not remember, but he sure acted like an officer. Rick repeated absently, "Yeah," and both started towards the campfire. Before they passed him by, Daryl was surprised to meet Rick's eye and be acknowledged with a smile. The amnesiac tilted his head towards the others and gave a small gesture to follow. Had the Deputy known he was close enough to hear? Had it been on purpose, to try and heal the hostility between cop and redneck? But Rick wouldn't have known what Shane would say. Why would he...

Curious despite himself, Daryl picked up his crossbow and a bottle of water before skirting around to the side of the two authority figures. Shane called for attention, asking everyone to gather round within hearing distance. "Dale, you hear me from up there, old timer?"

Adjusting his rifle and holding his chin up in response, Dale returned from atop the RV, "I hear you loud and clear." There was an undercurrent of ' _you idiot boy_ ' to his words making the few who could tell smile at Walsh's expense. Able to hear it as well, Shane raised his hands in mock surrender and turned to Rick to have him speak first.

Swallowing for a moment and scanning the faces all around him, the amnesiac squared his shoulders and started strongly, "We need to start thinking about the future. There's no guarantee that there's an organized government anymore, so we need to start considering where we might want to be come winter. We'll need sturdy walls, if we're lucky some kinda energy for heat, and food to keep us strong."

Offering no sign of argument this time, his fellow Deputy nodded and continued, "We need to figure out our skill sets. When we're settled safely, we'll need to build a real community. And everyone, I mean, _everyone,_ " Shane looked down at the eager children's faces, "needs to learn how to defend themselves." Mrs. Grimes' doe eyes widened comically as she reached for her son instinctively as if to shield him. But Carl was watching his father and Shane with an excited gaze, stiffly resisting his mother's pull. Carol's lips pursed white and fearful, but there was something strong in her eyes as they considered her own child. Duane and the Morales children had serious little faces, and Daryl would bet each of them had already had a bit of instruction.

"I won't ask everyone to decide now," Rick's low voice added quietly. He made a point of looking at everyone, including Daryl and those he hadn't been introduced to, "But I want everyone to spend a couple hours thinking about where they want to end up. Now I've thought about it, and I know what I want to do before we find shelter. I want supplies and I want information."

The hunter observed the other new man nod in agreement while Shane looked on in confusion, "Information?"

Jones spoke up, "We weren't just going to Atlanta to see the Refugee Center. The CDC was supposed to be working on a cure."

Immediately the others started to protest, some like Jim shaking his head along with his shaking hands while Andrea proclaimed that was the dumbest idea she'd heard yet. Rick raised his arms, silently asking for quiet and waiting until everyone noticed, settling down begrudgingly. The cowboy nodded at his friend and Morgan patted Duane's shoulder before speaking.

"My wife was bit." The people immediately reacted with sympathetic faces, seeming to bite their tongues against their own grief. Daryl just watched, ticking his jaw as he wondered what that would feel like. To have someone he truly cared about turn, come back from the dead. "We tried to help her. Found some antibiotics, but nothing stopped that fever… Maybe the CDC doesn't have a cure, maybe it's as empty of life as Atlanta. But I got some questions that need _answers_. Are there any medicines they had that helped at all? If your hand is bit, could we amputate and save a person?"

A few people gasped, others started to murmur in wonder. Jim pressed the heels his palms to his eyes and stalked off a few feet. Daryl only knew the man lost his family in Atlanta, not how, but what little sympathy he had for strangers went out to him. That man was, for all intents and purposes, broken.

Rick bobbed his head, "Something to think about. For now, everyone do what you can, whether it's sorting out supplies for distribution or cleaning up what you got, let's get prepared for whatever you want to do."

Before they could disperse Andrea stepped forward, speaking up in haste, "Amy and I are going fishing in the quarry. We're both experienced fishers so we'll empty that pond as much as we can for dinner." Shane and a few others said their thanks, and the girls quickly set off back to the canoe by the RV.

As everyone departed to their own tasks, Daryl backed away until Lori stomped over to her husband and lover. She hissed, "The _CDC?_ You just left Atlanta and you want to go _back?_ "

Jones hovered nearby like Daryl and their respective children, but looked a bit more supportive. Walsh agreed with Lori, "Man, I don't know about all that. What if we can't get in? Or if it's all on computer and we risk our lives for nothing? And we can't split up the group." He shook his head like a sad dog, "This camp loses manpower and we would _lose_ people if more walkers come at us."

"We won't," Rick licked his lips and grabbed his belt defensively, "We put it to a vote and anyone that sticks with us, if it's agreed, then we all go to Atlanta. CDC is on the outskirts, we'd set up a nearby camp and take a small, fast group to the Center. Get what we can, regroup, then hopefully get on the road before nightfall. No trying to stay overnight."

The men considered the plan which even the hunter thought both optimistic yet possible. Lori held her hand to her face like she couldn't hear anymore and stalked off. He had no idea how his brother would take it, but Daryl knew one thing. After yesterday and despite his doubts about the amnesiac, he wanted to stay close. He wanted to stay with _Rick's_ group. Somehow the man had survived where all logic said he shouldn't, lucky sum'bitch. Devil's luck maybe. But he lived and he was clever. And he still stopped to save other people. Finally turning away from the core leaders, he circled back to the Dixon tent, drinking his water and thinking.

There was a shuffling noise inside; his brother was awake, noisily gulping a crinkling plastic bottle of water. Coming around the side, Daryl observed as Merle finished the bottle, moaned and grabbed his temples. Narrowing his eyes at the pathetic though familiar sight, the younger Dixon impulsively tossed his half empty canteen at the man, knocking him on the head and eliciting a curse. " _Goddamn son'ova bitch!_ "

"Tch, serves you right. You dumbfuck," Daryl cursed right back. Merle groaned and glared through bleary, hateful eyes. He started talking, ignoring any insults along the way, "I took all your shit. Don't want no excuses 'bout how that blue sky was gonna sell great in the End Times. We got other things to worry about, like not being a fucking dumbass and calling down a horde a undead on our asses."

"Yeah, well…" Merle shrugged, probably only regretting his pounding head and not the good time he had messing around in the department store. Knowing his brother like he did, the hunter was sure he'd have excuses left and right about 'living well while he could' and 'everyone had to go sometime' and the like. Making another noise of disgust, Daryl contemplated what to say as his hungover relation started in on Daryl's water.

"Rick got the cop to move camp. Look for shelter," he began, and was briskly interrupted.

"Rick? _Rick?_ " the old soldier sneered, "Officer Friendly your buddy now?"

Daryl gave a restrained flinch, not liking his first reaction to disappointing family but bearing his teeth through it. Merle wasn't going to whip him, and he certainly wasn't well enough to fight him in withdrawal. "He saved your sorry hide. You'd be some chewed up walker right now, weren't for him and Glenn."

The elder Dixon squinted at him in confusion, "That the Chinaman?"

"He's _Korean_ ," Daryl found himself sneering back without realizing. Jeez, he didn't even care really, just wanted to be contrary because he could. His smartass little brother side was showing for sure. Merle spat outside the tent in a physical show of not giving a damn, so the hunter kept going, "He wants to try the CDC though, before hitting the road."

"The chink?"

Growling in annoyance, the younger muttered through clenched teeth, "No, _Rick_." He kept from defending the Asian again because he knew Merle was trying to rile him up on purpose. Quicker he got this over with, sooner he'd get himself out of speaking range of his jerk brother. "Couple hours everyone's gonna decide who's staying with who, and vote on whether they're checking out the Disease Center or not. I wanna go with."

Daryl bent to collect a couple knives and the rest of his arrows just outside the tent, ignoring the man sputtering inside it. "You-you wanna-well, ain't that just grand! You wanna stick with your new boyfriend, leave old Merle out to dry, _fine!_ You lousy, ungrateful…"

It devolved further into insult after ridiculous insult and the hunter ignored him in favor of stepping into the woods for a quick patrol outside the tin can line. As the redneck's voice faded in volume, Daryl shook his head in thought. What a fucking asshole. The only reason the man was all bluster and hard feelings was because the _little_ brother had decided what he was going to do without consulting his _elders_ as Merle had tried to emphasize while they grew up. During his teen years such advise had been half decent, especially in their tough crowds. But even then, Daryl hadn't listened fifty percent of the time. He'd gotten his ass kicked in harsh lessons for it, sure, but over twenty years later Merle didn't have to try and protect him from his own mistakes anymore. He was following an amnesiac cowboy into a city of undead and that was that.

...God, that sounded awful. Maybe he should go back to Merle. Let him talk him out of it.

Before he could contemplate turning around, movement ahead got his defenses up. A human figure made his finger itch on the trigger before Morgan Jones called out, "Not dead," in a low tone. Sighing through his nose, Dixon lowered his bow and nodded in acknowledgement, watching the stranger get closer. "Did a quick patrol myself, starting from the other end. Nothing yet. You good?"

"Yeah," Daryl drawled and shouldered his weapon, ready to move on, "Better hope you didn't scare all the squirrel or there goes lunch."

To his surprise the man chuckled softly. Wasn't often a sense of humor or good nature survived out here. But Morgan spoke again before the redneck could pass him, "Can I ask, have you decided where you want to go?"

Giving a grunt of discomfort, Daryl looked away into the woods to scan the perimeter and answered, "I'll follow Rick." When he only received a thoughtful hum, suspicious blue eyes turned back to the stranger. His pulse kicked up a little. Jones had been at the truck when Daryl had caught himself checking out Grimes the other day. Had he seen? Had he figured it out? But it's not like Rick's handsomeness was the only reason to follow him. That'd be ridiculous. So what was that noise about?

"Good. Glad to have you with us," was all the man said before he moved on with a placid expression. But what did _that_ mean?

Tensing up involuntarily, Dixon stalked off through the undergrowth, focusing his frustrations onto the hunt and controlling every muscle of his body for silence. When he really tried, the hunter could step as softly as a deer, stalk as smoothly as a big cat, and track as far as a wolf. It wasn't long before he became one with the living forest around him, felt the wind in the branches, the natural sway of the trunks as subtle as a heartbeat. And caught signs of life in the woods, leading him to the tiny noises they made as they scurried from ground to tree and branch to branch. By the time he finished his patrol with no sign of the undead, he'd rounded up five squirrels and a possum, ready for lunch prep.

He headed for the dusty, cleared area in front of the RV, an empty plastic chair waiting for him and a couple rocks and logs makeshift surfaces for working on. They were supplies to refresh the nightly fires, but worked fine in lieu of tables he'd have to clean up. Just as Daryl settled in and got bloody striping skin from flesh with his knife, T-Dog surprised him by coming around. The redneck eyed the Atlanta native, barely pausing in his work on sorting the useful parts of the animals into a nearby cracked bowl. T-Dog dragged another plastic chair closer and sat down a couple meters away with a groan.

Settled in, the African American asked, "Anything I can do?"

Daryl's knife paused as he looked up. He recognized the reaching out, the show of no hard feelings. But he was a practical guy first, not a friendly one, "You ever skin a critter before?"

"Ah," the city boy paused with a sheepish expression, "No."

"Then no. Less'en you wanna roast up lunch or somethin'." So far he'd only seen the women take turns at cooking, which was just dumb in Daryl's opinion. Plenty of men-chefs in the world, but somehow these good old boys couldn't be bothered. Not that Daryl was all that better, but he usually ate out or made his own over a quick fire. Barbeque if he had the inclination; liked his fruit and vegetables raw. To his surprise, T-Dog was nodding congenially.

"Yeah, I can do that. Can't patrol the lines, so I'll start a fire and show off my meager talents," the bruised man joked and leaned forward to gather a few logs before going to a rock lined pit. Only a few feet away, but T-Dog didn't speak again for a while and the silence was oddly companionable. Even when Daryl remembered himself and looked up toward his tent to find his brother standing by it with a glare, he just glared right back. His asshole brother played the bigot, but he'd done his soldiering with people from all walks of life. The slurs were more for appearance than anything, no matter how aggravating it was. The crew Merle ran with before and the way they showed how tough they were dictated how he behaved even now, and Daryl doubted anything he said or did would change that. Only Merle could change Merle. The younger Dixon finished carving up the last squirrel, giving his elder a squinty eyed frown to which the tall blonde spat at the ground for in response.

Daryl ignored him and started on the possum, calling over his shoulder, "You ready yet?" An affirmative was given and he held out the bowl of meat over the back of his chair one handed so T-Dog could grab a couple handfuls. He heard the sizzle start up and hoped the fella had a good sense of it; cooking squirrel wasn't like barbecuing chicken.

With the smell of cooking meat, his stomach started to gurgle but the redneck kept his discipline and didn't rush carving up the over-sized rodent. He'd learned his lesson as a child that being hasty with a knife was a good way to injure himself. If he was that hungry, a little raw meat wouldn't kill him. As it was, Daryl was just fine waiting for his portion, long adapted to a starvation diet since joining up with the huge camp. It didn't take long to finish up; the possum was a skinny little thing. He quietly set the bowl of useful meats next to T-Dog then gathered up the carcasses to go bury in the treeline. Usually one of the more rugged types could be guilted into the filthy chore, but for some reason Jim wasn't around and Ed could only be counted on if Carol was in camp.

The hunter got the worst of the blood off in the loose soil of his makeshift ditch, but the tackiness of his hands on top of how filthy he got the day before mandated a dip in the lake. Even he could tell his own stink was building up to a rank. The sloping road brought him to a surprisingly few women at the laundry, and still no Ed. Daryl was starting to suspect he'd missed the man's demise which was a pity. Jacqui and Carol nodded at him as he stepped straight into the water, clothes still on. The blond sisters in the canoe watched him for a moment, lines free of fish for now. When he was chest deep in, the redneck dunked his head and gave his skull a quick scrub underwater. Backing up and shaking like a dog, he could hear Amy giggle.

Blinking water from his eyes, Dixon looked over as Andrea said, "Well about time! Thank you Daryl. Maybe your stink will make the fish jump on our hooks, huh?" Her sister gave a cute little laugh again, and the hunter realized from the friendliness of the older sister's smile he was being teased rather than bullied so he just rolled his eyes.

"Some fisherman you are, can't get a catch without a man's help?" And Amy laughed even louder, tilting her head back and twirling her little parasol. Andrea gaped at him indignantly, but was distracted by a draw on her fishing line. Daryl gave his arms a rapid scrub, then started out of the water. He shouted, "Your welcome!" sarcastically over his shoulder, and this time set everyone laughing, even Jacqui and Carol which was a hard thing to do nowadays.

He smiled a bit, ignoring the squelch of his boots until he reached a patch of grass topside. It was the first day he'd felt so welcomed among them without danger to ease the way. Sitting down to untie and pour the water out of his shoes, he observed that someone had opened a couple cans of some green vegetable that they were supplementing with the game and people were coming back from their tasks for a small lunch. T-Dog came his way with two plastic plates, to his surprise.

"Made you a plate before the portions got too skimpy," was all that was said before the camp dish was offered down to him. The hunter glanced at the amount and confirmed that it was a little more than he usually took. Not as much as a kid got, but more than an adult. Daryl squinted up in confusion, and only asked "Why?" He got a gap toothed smile and the plate a bit lower in insistence, "Cause you hunted it, you shared it, and we want you to keep you at it."

Shrugging, the redneck took the plate and quickly ate everything with his fingers without looking up again. T-Dog moved on good naturedly and soon Daryl was free to enjoy the sun burning the dampness off his skin and clothes in the cool grass. For a few minutes anyway. When lunch was the time for a group meeting, they didn't get much down time with the rations so lean. Merle sauntered into his peripheral, avoiding the line up to food but still haunting the edges of the camp. Daryl thought the old soldier would follow his little brother, because no matter what he said he still wanted to protect the younger Dixon. As Rick cowboy-ed up with his back to the RV and looked to be counting the people around him, the strangers and family alike drew closer. Despite his memory loss, there was something charismatic about that man. Shane stepped up too, but it was becoming clear to everyone that even he deferred to Rick in his own way.

"Okay. Looks like we're missing a couple people. Anyone seen where-" but the question became irrelevant as Dale came down the slope from the high road.

"I, uh. I think we got a problem," the old timer hesitated, clearly not expecting so many onlookers for his return. Rick nodded and asked him to continue. Dale added, "Jim's up on the hill digging. He, uh-he's not doing too well."

Jacqui piped up in honest worry, "He'll get heat stroke if he doesn't stop."

Removing his fishing cap, the white haired man admitted, "I think he already has it." People began to murmur in concern and fright, not that Daryl could understand why. He looked around at everyone, leaning an elbow on a raised knee, as he wondered at the sudden movement towards the hill like a herd.

Until Rick raised his voice for first time since he'd met him, "Hold it!" Everyone stuttered to a stop, even Shane, and the hunter was able to pick out that Morgan had stayed behind as well, on the same wavelength as Rick and the Dixons. With raised palms, the cowboy explained, "Let's hold up a second. Now obviously something's wrong, but there's no need to desert camp and leave things unprotected. Also, I don't imagine having an audience would help calm Jim down any. Let's have two volunteers go up to get him back here, and make sure to take a couple knives with you."

"Not a gun?" Andrea piped up with a furrowed brow. Her enthusiasm surprised Daryl some since as far as he knew, her piece was a gift with no blood on it. Just because a person owned a firearm didn't mean they weren't a liability with no experience. He'd have figured her college educated ass would know that.

Grimes shook his head, "Naw, ammo's going to be a precious commodity soon enough. And I only know a few of us that are trained for firearms." His partner gave a considering tilt of his head.

"That's true. We don't need to be drawing more noise to our camp anyway. Knives, swords," Shane spared an amused glance at the amnesiac, "Whatever you've got that can kill the quietest should be your first choice of weapon."

"So two volunteers," Rick reiterated, "to go get Jim and we'll see if anyone's got a specific destination in mind, if they're gonna split from the group. When that's settled we'll vote on the CDC trip."

Immediately, Jacqui came forward and snatched a cooking knife, already hustling up the hill without waiting for a partner. Rick and Morgan looked a bit pained and Dixon quickly realized that they were trying to enforce a buddy system rather than focusing on the amount of people needed to bring back an ill person. Yeah, good luck getting that across to these people. It'll be like herding cats. Feral ones.

Dale was glancing between the swiftly vanishing black woman and the rest of the camp, before deciding that he seemed to be the best prepared to volunteer and headed back the way he came with a, "I better go catch up to her."

Daryl snorted to himself, glancing back at his brother without thought to find a similarly amused expression on Merle's haggard face. Then they shared a frown, remembering their argument and facing the group leaders again. Rick was staring up at the pale blue sky and taking a deep breath before he spoke again, "Alright, is there anyone here that has a specific place in mind to go to?"

Morales stepped forward, his wife holding her children close, "We're going to go to Birmingham." Murmurs began that instant, disappointment and concern in equal measure, little Sophia and Carl the loudest at the loss of their playmates. The Hispanic man apologetically declared, "We have family there. We want to be with our people."

"That's a long trip," Shane drawled with a frown and crossed arms. His disapproval was plain to see and the redneck wondered if he was about to argue for the group to stay together.

But Rick studied him right quick and interrupted, "We'll sort out some supplies for you, whatever we can spare." The little nuclear family was all gratitude and relief, no doubt worried despite their determination. The other Deputy made a frustrated expression, but let it be. "Is there anyone else?"

People glanced around, but no one spoke up for a long minute. Until a most unpleasant voice sounded from a tent across the bare dirt center. "We'll make our own way." Carol stiffened up and grabbed for Sophia, "My family is my business and no one got any right to what's mine." Daryl found himself climbing to his feet without thought, glaring over at his first sight of Ed Peletier. The man's face was swollen, one eye red with burst blood vessels and he was leaning out of the tent but unwilling to stand.

Over his shoulder, the hunter saw Shane lean close to Rick to speak into his ear. Must've told him exactly what kinda man Ed was, since the cowboy stiffened up and _scowled_ across the camp at the wounded. That's the first he'd seen of the amnesiac having a temper whatsoever. Based on the clenching of Walsh's fist as he and Grimes stalked over, Daryl would bet his crossbow Shane was the one to inflict that beating. Those closest to the Peletier tent took a few steps back, and the other men instinctively circled as the former officers closed in, even the Dixon brothers walking around to join. Neither had liked seeing their childhood on replay and that had been partially why they avoided the group which had allowed it.

Ed started to look like a cornered beast and all the more angry for it. Rick stepped up just outside of arm's reach and crouched to stare him in the face. He didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to in the tense silence around them, "So you think you're better on your own. You talk to your wife about that first?"

"I don't have to. I make the decisions in my family and _I say_ we go," the abuser snarled angrily. Daryl rolled his shoulders, and breathed deep to hold himself back.

The cowboy tilted his head, letting those intense blue eyes stare down that rotten son of a bitch until the man gulped. Grimes stood and faced Carol whom Daryl had ended up closest to. He spoke softly, "Ma'am, it's time to be strong now. There are no more women's shelters. No more neighbors watching or officers knocking on doors. No more teachers watching your little girl for bruises. If you stay with him, in this world-"

Ed was startled at the words, but regrouped to interject with a shout, "You shut your mouth! Shut your _goddamn-_ "

There was a click and in a split second, Rick was holding his Colt to the man's face, safety off. It happened so fast the entire group had only a moment to realize what was going on, tense up and step back in confusion. The Dixons and Jones stayed utterly still, even where Shane and the Grimes family flinched back. It was the fastest draw the hunter had ever seen. The side of Rick's face, all that Daryl could see, was stone cold. "You wanna keep it up, you can leave on your own. You reform, you could stay. But in neither of those options is the right to kill your wife and daughter. Not while I'm here."

The redneck would swear that dumb brute started to shake in his seat. Daryl smirked, and stepped closer to Carol, looking back at her and hoping. The woman was pale and trembling, watching that Colt with watery eyes. Rick lifted his arm, holding the weapon to his shoulder and turned to Mrs. Peletier, "Do _you_ wanna stay with us?"

Sophia crept closer, slipping around Merle to wrap skinny arms around her mother's waist. The pixie woman startled, blinking away tears to hold onto her little girl. Her spine steeled, and she squared up to Rick, "Yes. Yes, I wanna stay with the group."

Daryl saw Shane turn to meet Lori's gaze and at a gesture the housewife stepped forward to offer Carol a place by her tent and in her car. Her husband immediately lunged forward with a shout, startling everyone but the cowboy who pivoted smoothly and kicked him in the chest. Flung back onto his back and moaning in pain, Ed lay there while Rick crouched down once more, "Oughta be more polite to the man with a gun. Now, you think about what you're prepared to do. Cause you know what I am."

Turning the safety back on with an audible click and holstering it, their undeniable leader dismissed the asshole by walking back to the RV and utterly ignoring the piece of shit. Carol and Sophia joined Lori and Carl. Shane followed a step behind, looking between Ed and his best friend like he'd never seen him before. Daryl started to move, but hesitated when Merle half stepped in front of him. Tensing up, the hunter watched his older brother look between him, Ed and over his shoulder at the others. Finally, he nodded.

"Alright. Alright, little brother," the soldier telegraphed slapping Daryl's shoulder, ignoring his expression of surprise, "I see why you like him. We can stick around."

Rolling his eyes, the younger Dixon stepped around him and ignored his big brother following after him with quiet kissing noises. Man, he was never gonna let up on that after being handcuffed by the same guy Daryl decided they were following. Within seconds everyone had gathered around the campfires and realized that no one else had any plans to separate. Just in time for ol' Jimbo to shuffle down the hill, one arm over Dale's shoulder with a watchful Jacqui at his side. They settled as close as the shade would allow and started to ply the red faced man with water. Shane started over, but was cautioned off by Dale for some reason. The sun was high in the sky, intense above their heads without cloud cover; Daryl was curious what the Hell Jim was thinking up on that hill.

"While we're together, we need to lay down some rules." Shane looked at his friend sharply and the hunter guessed he hadn't told him about the couple rules he'd already set up. Rick continued on, sharing a look with Morgan, "When we're on the road, no one separates from the group for any reason. We move in at least pairs at all times. And always, _always_ have more than one weapon on hand. No firearms without gun training; could hurt one of us instead and don't need to draw any unwanted attention." Daryl shared a glance with his brother, understanding the amnesiac had probably created run tactics while out with Morgan. He was already battle tested, unlike most of the people there. They might still take losses while people learned.

Rick carried on, "If you get separated on the road, return to the last mile marker and wait. If it's dangerous, go back one more marker and wait for the group to come get you. If you're separated in civilization, return to our last base, or the road where we entered the town. If you're bit…" he sighed, long and slow. Clearing his throat, the cowboy only added, "Well, we'll decide what to do about that after we vote on the CDC. Is everybody ready?"

"The plan is to ship out to Atlanta," Shane took over. Daryl figured he was actually giving his friend's plan a fair shot since Rick seemed ready to let everyone vote without it. "Now, CDC is on the outskirts. We find a place to hole up, then a smaller, faster group goes to investigate. We'd leave tomorrow at dawn and be back on the road by afternoon. Any naysayers?"

Walsh raised his hand, not that the redneck was surprised. Andrea and Amy joined in, obviously reluctant to risk Atlanta again. T-Dog looked uncertain, but kept his hand down, while an unnamed couple raised their hands. The Morales family watched, but weren't apart of them anymore. To be honest, Daryl wasn't sure what they would get out of the trip. Probably nothing. But he didn't have much to say against it either. It was entirely possible there _was_ something to find. And knowing Rick for the short time he had, chances were there would be something there.

Shane looked disappointed at the lack of majority. But Rick asked for the 'ayes' and said anyone undecided should keep their arms down. To most's surprise, Lori was among the first to raise her hand. Morgan and Rick were a given, but then Carol raised her hand and T-Dog braved up. Dale, Jacqui and Jim watched, but abstained. When the Dixons added their say, it was decided.

To Atlanta they would go.


	5. W-LDF-R-

Rick knew he wasn't being the most helpful at the moment, but couldn't muster the energy to care. His body was stiff with pain and lactic acid build up, the lack of sleep catching up to him. His hands shook terribly when he lifted them; mouth desert dry, but nausea kept him from even considering drink or food. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He didn't dare to nod off, because if he slept he was sure the screams would just follow him into his dreams.

Their last night at the camp played on repeat in his head, eyes staring unseeing out the passenger window. Besides the dead, he was probably the worst off of everyone. Even the children had seen more death than he had, were more accustomed to the terror of that night. Carl curled up close, asleep under his arm despite the heat. Somehow he rested well, silently at least. Duane had given up his spot on the bench seat when he'd seen how Carl clung to his father. Morgan reluctantly let him go with Glenn and a couple others in the RV, as he hadn't stopped hovering around the quiet amnesiac for a second. Rick was aware that his first friend had fended off both his ex-wife and Shane for the right to keep an eye on him while they traveled, though the emotions it ought to have evoked were numb.

Their caravan was much smaller than it would've been since yesterday afternoon when they'd voted on it. Most that weren't dead, had changed their minds. Went south towards Fort Benning instead. It all felt much longer than less than twelve hours ago. Aside from what they'd needed to sleep, eat and their weapons, most everything had already been packed into the vehicles. The blond sisters had finished fishing at twilight, hauling up enough that every person in camp could eat a whole fish if they wanted. It'd set off a celebratory feel, emphasized by it being their last night of trusted shelter.

Morales had built up the fire pits with stones, so that they could have brighter, hotter fires without being seen. Rick wasn't sure why it had made him frown until night fell. Maybe others wouldn't be able to see the fire, but neither could he see out into the darkness very well. His night vision was eradicated any time he so much as glanced near the people gathered around the lights. It had set him on edge, Morgan and the Dixon brothers joining him in having the fires at their backs, keeping lookout and stalking around while the others began to speak up and share stories of their past.

He hadn't even realized Dale wasn't up on the RV anymore, having joined the communal fire for dinner, until he heard his voice explaining the time piece on his wrist. A feeling of dread came upon him then. He'd turned back to the cooking fires, finally noticing that everyone had finished eating, but no one had thought to smother the flames yet. Rick had barked a question of who was on watch. It'd been harsh and likely offended people, causing Amy to stop walking to the RV and stare at him.

But that hadn't mattered for long. In the sudden silence, they could all hear a choked off scream, ending in a gurgle. Soft groans and growls carried from the tents as everyone finally turned away from the fires in fear. Only for Amy's piercing scream to redirect them. Several walkers came from the side of the RV, startling the teen into falling backwards into her sister. And then everyone was screaming and yelling, the hungry snarls of the undead a resounding bassline to the panic.

Rick remembered shouting for Morgan, to get their Civil War weapons passed around. Shane was quick to grab his police-issue rifle, blowing off heads with abandon while Lori screamed for her son, though Carl was actually closer to his father and safer there than moving in the crowd. The Dixon brothers both culled the creatures with abandon, every movement deadly but still not enough to immediately end the horde that had found them.

Someone had reached the bag of guns the former Deputy had stolen and a few more people started shooting, luckily directed by Shane and Rick into a semi-circle that put their backs to the RV and the defenseless in the middle. What few they had collected. The people that had made their own fires were on their own. He glimpsed Jim and Jacqui, who had been separate from the group, fighting back to back. Sweat poured down the swordsman's face as his arms turned to lead under the exertion of staying alive. When the last shot rang out, a light _twang_ from Daryl's crossbow, the silence opened up room for sobs. Grief overtook the panic.

That was when Rick had started to go numb. He couldn't remember ever seeing such a sheer amount of carnage like that before. He didn't have any memory of it, barely had ideas of the Holocaust or war without the accompanying images and nothing to jog his memory. A twitch of a nearby corpse had him instinctively swinging his sword down into a decomposed skull. He barely registered Morgan watching him, asking for a response and then taking lead the next moment when Grimes couldn't speak.

"This isn't over yet. Be careful where you step. Let's make sure they're down. And anyone injured should climb into the RV for medical treatment." People's cries hitched higher or choked with the order, but most did as asked. Some of the people he hadn't learned the names of yet instead stayed among the tents, sobbing as their loved ones died.

Rick couldn't look away from the bodies. The decomposed walkers lay where they fell. The once living campers were beneath them usually, bodies covered in flesh devouring bites and faces a rictus of pain and terror. The sweet smell of sickly rot clashed with fresh death, bowels loose and organs exposed from clawed open abdomens. If he wasn't feeling so cold and empty, Grimes would've vomited.

A wavery voice finally spoke up, the first in a while, Rick thought as the living started to move in his peripheral towards the dead, "I remember now." He had the vaguest thought that someone had been behind him. Wasn't there? Someone important.

"I remember why I dug the holes."

The words hadn't made sense to the former Deputy for a long time. Only the actions after had meant anything. For after that morbid statement, Carl threw his arms around his father's waist and finally started to cry. It made Rick realize his own were dry and itchy from not blinking. His shaking hands dropped the sword and Colt he barely remembered using to grasp the little boy's arms. _So small_ , he thought.

He still thought so, finally shifting his far away gaze to the child under his arm. Grimes couldn't get past the block in his throat to speak, but he could hold his son at least. The first and last thing he'd done between the then and now.

Beside him, Morgan must've noticed the shift in his attention. "Rick. You don't have to speak if you can't right now, but I'd appreciate a nod if you can."

The traumatized man let his head fall forward in a shaky dip, barely able to straighten up again to watch Carl. His vision spun, nausea increasing for a few seconds. Their driver sighed and shifted his hands, doing something Rick couldn't see out of the corner of his eye. "Okay, that's good. Now, I know you're in shock and you probably know it too. You're running on fumes, Rick."

There wasn't a question that he could hear. He didn't bother to react.

"You should try to sleep while you can."

The amnesiac's body surged with a fresh bout of adrenaline, heart pounding at the thought of reliving that nightmare. Of doing so right next to his son. _No, no, I can't._

Rick barely realized his head was shaking from side to side in an instinctive rejection, not just shaking from his sudden panic.

"Rick," his friend tried plaintively. "Your body can't take it anymore. We both know you were pushing it when you went into Atlanta alone. I shouldn't have let you," Morgan sucked up a sudden breath, probably tipping his head in regret. But he pushed past, speaking even as Rick barely comprehended the words, "If the world hadn't ended you'd be in physical therapy. We don't have that luxury, but we both know you've done too much now. Atlanta was tough and I know you didn't get any sleep that first night. After last night…"

There was a logic to his friend's words. A reason that was slowly sinking in for Grimes that he was slowly realizing he _ought_ to listen to. His thoughts whirled, half-panic and half exhaustion. _I can't, I can't-Carl is right here, I just can't-_

His shaking hand rose just enough to touch his son's dark hair, resting heavily atop his head though thankfully not rousing him. Morgan straightened up beside them, suddenly putting both hands on the steering wheel, but Rick could feel his gaze.

"Carl will be alright," the man started softly, "I'll wake you before anything happens." Perhaps it was Morgan's own parenting that let him read Rick so well, or maybe their short time together had given him more insight into the amnesiac than he'd thought. But he knew just what to say. "You'll sleep for an hour, Rick. Not long enough to fall into REM sleep. And I promise, I'll wake you if you so much as twitch, okay? You're so tired, I doubt you'll move at all, yeah?"

Grimes didn't know it took several minutes for the reasoning to sink in. For Morgan's words and further coaxing to get him nodding and finally nodding off. All he knew, all he felt was a slow understanding of safety. Safety for his child and a reassurance of no dreams. No reliving the night. Just darkness.

And then there was only black.

Until he woke again in a different place, the vibration of the truck stopped and people moved around in a small courtyard of sorts. His limbs weren't shaking anymore, but his whole body felt like lead, sounds were muffled as if his head was under water. But his throat and eyes were gritty with dehydration. Below his arm, Carl jerked into sudden wakefulness and scanned his new surroundings warily before glancing up at his father.

"Dad?" he queried, but didn't ask further, eyes drawn to the movement of the other survivors getting stuff out of their vehicles. Rick studied the area for a long minute, unmoving. Just outside their door was a mass of overgrown vegetation, flowers long gone and leaves shriveled in the Georgia summer heat, but obviously untended by a gardener too. They were parked under an overhang of sorts, with a small filled up parking lot on the other side. He couldn't spy a sign, but the gray and beige building on their left finally gave a hint when he tilted forward enough to look past the RV. 'Emergency Services', so another hospital most likely.

The amnesiac patted his son's shoulder, then forced his body to unlock the side door just in time for Morgan to come around the hood and open it. Jones sighed as he held out two bottles of water to the Grimes men. Knowing he needed it, Rick drank and pushed Carl to as well with a soft touch to his elbow. He moved gingerly, flexing his legs and rolling his shoulders, knowing when he got out it would hurt like Hell. Damn coma made him feel like a senior citizen instead of scarcely middle aged.

"So," his friend began tiredly, "we're just across from Emory University, maybe five minutes drive down the road from the CDC. Gonna take a four man squad on foot, take about thirty minutes there and back hopefully." He backed up as Rick turned out, heavily placing his boots on the ground before he gave standing a shot. The cowboy gritted his teeth against the aches, but couldn't keep his back from noisily cracking like kindling and his breath from hissing in reaction. "Yeah, I thought so."

"Dad?" Carl piped up in concern. Rick gave him a pained smile over his shoulder. He knew what he had to do. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but he couldn't push himself anymore. Not unless he wanted to risk other people, or use up their supplies when he inevitably got ill.

"Looks like I'm sitting this one out."

Morgan nodded in obvious relief, glad not to fight him over it. He softly added, "You take your time coming over, looks like we're setting up in the waiting room."

Grimes bowed his head, shuffling aside while leaning against the truck so Carl could slide down from the seat. A muffled whinny turned his attention to the trailer, meeting a round brown eye for a moment before the mare flicked her tail and bobbed her head. Friendly ol' girl, he thought contentedly. His son pulled on his sword belt, redirecting his gaze. Blue eyes met blue and Carl asked if he was alright. Rick sighed, wondered if he should ask about how old the boy was before elaborating. But to be fair, the world wouldn't cater to childhood anymore. Better to be as honest as Carl could understand.

"'Member how I was in a coma, and I wouldn't wake up?" he started with, and motioned the young boy closer so he could lean on him like an old man. It would also help him feel useful, Rick hoped, and made _him_ feel better to have Carl close. "When you spend all day laying down for a long while, it can take a toll." They sidestepped along towards the glass doors, taking their time crossing the shaded pavillion. "Your muscles get weaker, and people who wake up usually need help from special trainers who know the best ways to exercise without it hurting. Unfortunately, there ain't no one around like that for me. And we have to keep moving until we're safe. So I just do the best I can."

"I can help you exercise, Dad. We can figure it out together," Carl answered earnestly, his serious little face looking up at the amnesiac hopefully. Finally, it didn't feel too hard to smile again. Rick accepted with all the seriousness it was offered, making his son light up in return.

They crossed the threshold into a stuffy, sickly sweet waiting room. They made for the barely cushioned chairs, Carl providing a thin shoulder to balance his father down. He caught his breath at the same time he took in their surroundings. There were splashes of blood against the grey tile here and there, but no sign of bodies. The sweet scent of rot was familiar and death lurked somewhere in the hallways ahead, but nothing had appeared before their noisy group. The women and Sophia settled close together in a u-shaped group of chairs, placing bags of snacks and drinks down. T-Dog hovered near the other men, but slowly fell into another chair nearby. His mild injuries were probably aching after combat and lack of sleep last night.

That left Morgan speaking lowly with Shane, Glenn, Dale, Jim, Daryl and Merle; Duane hovered behind his father, hand on his firearm and alert eyes watching the cars for signs of movement. At a gesture from his dark skinned friend, Shane's gaze was drawn to Rick and stayed there for a moment. The amnesiac nodded tiredly, holding Carl's little hand absently and the other Deputy frowned with obvious concern.

After a moment, Shane sharply turned his dark eyes on the other men and patted the high-powered rifle on his shoulder. "I don't want to leave you unprotected, but we'll move faster with people who can shoot and run at the same time. The faster we get there, the faster we get back. And no offense Glenn, but I ain't ever seen a gun in your hand."

The Asian lifted both palms in surrender, murmuring acquiesce softly. The senior Dale opted out on account of his stamina and eyes turned towards the other three, waiting for volunteers. Frail Jim-bo was already nodding absently when Merle suddenly piped up, "I'll go."

The hunter perked up, alarm on his face and an objection on his lips. "Merle!-"

"Oh shut up, baby brother. Let me do this," the hick added, glancing between various hostile expressions from the other men. "Think about it, you don't wanna leave me here with your women and chil'ren anyway. I done a tour in Afghanistan, I can take the heat _and_ shoot at the same time. Darylina here is the quiet one you want protecting your littles."

Daryl gave his brother a nasty sneer for the nickname, but remained silent. He narrowly eyed the other men, who communicated with only a few glances before accepting Merle for the run. For the most part. T-Dog gave a justified stink eye, but muttered, "Not like I want him 'round me none." Rick supposed the soldier had made a point. He wondered if there wasn't more to it though; such as trying to prove himself after his huge fuck up.

Seeing their chosen four were ready, the amnesiac called out, "Morgan. 'Member the duffle bags."

Jones playfully rolled his eyes, "Yes, _mother,_ " then added to his confused crew, "Even on short runs we should take some water, food, knife for opening cans and the like. And put another empty bag inside it, case we find stuff to scavenge. Extra weapons and ammunition is a given. Protective clothes, but lose the layers so we don't get heat stroke."

Merle made an exasperated expression before leaving for the Dixon's truck, probably well versed after a tour at war about what would be useful on an apocalypse run. But Shane was nodding along, pleased with the forethought that went into the planning. The Deputy stalked over to the women, lowly explaining who was going and reminding them to stay together, then rounded the bend of chairs to Carl and Rick. Morgan, Duane and Jim acknowledged everyone as they headed for the vehicles and the needed supplies.

With a hand on Carl's shoulder, Shane looked at the Grimes men with a furrowed brow. The boy stood proudly, shoulders back and happy when the muscled cop said, "You look after your dad now, make sure he don't work too hard while we're gone."

"Yes, sir!" his son snapped back, familiar blue eyes pinning his father to the chair with determination. Rick chuckled and let it go.

"You make sure you come back," the amnesiac returned.

Walsh nodded, leaning in to grip his shoulder with one large hand, one on each Grimes. "I will. Do my best to get what you want to know."

"I know you will. Prefer you over the information though," Rick reminded him, feeling like it had to be said. He had a thought that with the world as it was, with danger around every corner, people should start cutting through the bullshit and saying what they could for their family. You never knew when it could be the last time you saw them.

He watched Shane's jaw tense and release, dark eyes fixed on his for an intense moment. The Deputy swallowed, then said in a thick voice, "Thanks, brother. I'll see you both soon."

Walsh stalked off like a soldier, almost like if he didn't now he'd wouldn't be able to make himself leave. Or maybe Rick was just getting sentimental. Carl watched him go, that little hand shaking in his grasp for only a moment before his spine stiffened and he turned back to his father.

"We should do some of those exercises, right? So you can get better?"

The former Deputy sighed, tilting his head back against the uncomfortable chair back. He wasn't looking forward to this at all. "Yeah," he groaned. "Yeah, we should. Just a minute though." Rick gestured Carl forward, putting only a little weight on the boy's back to make him feel helpful. With measured breathes, he shuffled around a row of chairs to the women, gesturing the leftover men to follow in his wake. As he finally took a seat closer to the group, Duane came back through the creaking automatic doors, manually pulling them closed and quickly joining them.

"So what kind of hospital is this?" Rick queried at large.

Amy piped up quickly, "It's a children hospital. But there's lots of departments around here, cause of the University. Cardiology next door and oncology across the street."

The cowboy nodded, though this wasn't exactly what he was thinking of. They'd only have a couple hours at most to fill until the others got back. _Hopefully_ just a couple hours. He didn't trust the people left behind had enough survival training to simply cross the road and survive.

"Okay, but we don't have to go so far. One thing we didn't pick up a lot of was children's medicine. So we're in prime real estate now. There's always bandages and the like that we'll need from this emergency clinic." There were nods of agreement all around, even a little excitement. "We can't leave our stuff unguarded though and we shouldn't move from where the runners will know to find us. So I was thinking two or three people, _fast_ people, could move through the closest hallways for supplies."

Glenn immediately volunteered, but was interrupted by Daryl, "You go anywhere, you take a _goddamned_ machete."

It was so sudden and so viciously said, Rick couldn't help chuckling along with a few women who giggled in surprise. The Korean turned red, but sheepishly agreed. The hunter crouched down to grab the knife from his boot and recommended the young man put it in the same place to keep his hands free. Afterwards, Glenn reached for a canvas bag of wilderness tools for the hook-ended machete he could hang on his belt loop.

"Mebbe-" Duane started, only to stall as Rick shook his head immediately.

"Don't even think about it, kid. Your dad would kill me if I let you outta my sight and you know it. Also…" he trailed off meaningfully with a teasing grin.

With an annoyed huff, the younger Jones clearly enunciated, " _May-be._ " Then moodily sat in a chair between Sophia and Carl, a sulky pout on his face. The other two children grinned at him, Carl patting his back to Rick's pleasure. Looked like their sons were well on their way to being as friendly as their fathers.

"I'll go," little Amy chirped up next. Rick was starting to get deja vu as her older sister quickly snapped alert to deny her. But the baby sister seemed used to speaking over Andrea to be heard as she added, "I was pre-med in college. I've only done two years of study, but I could recognize most of the stuff we need quicker than anyone else here. Unless someone's hiding an MD?"

Her older sister was visibly frustrated, but let it go as the rest of the group watched the teenager with newfound respect. Amy took it all for approval and reached for a similar weapon from the canvas roll. Daryl was frowning though and when Rick made an entreating face at him, he finally spoke up. "If you two are both stickin' yer heads in cupboards, you need someone watchin' the door." The hunter looked around at the group with worry and Grimes wondered if he was reluctant to leave them down another fighter.

Dale readjusted his rifle, stepping closer to Dixon but not touching him. He nodded at the young runners, "You should go with them. You're quieter and faster than ol' me. But I'm a good shot and I'll keep my eyes peeled."

"Me too," T-Dog added on, tiredly standing but not nearly as shaky as Rick had been. "I may not have your aim, but we can keep watch and shoot just the same." Duane was nodding in agreement now, and would likely stand guard just like he'd learned to do for his daddy.

"Alright, alright, _fine,_ " Daryl conceded, stepping close to snatch a bag and tip the snacks out in a quick gesture, making Sophia yelp and grab for the rolling bottles. He whipped it over one shoulder, crossbow coming over the other as he started towards the closest hallway. "You two comin' or what? Grab a bag and let's _go._ Only got a couple hours to make a dent here."

Glenn and Amy practically yipped in surprise, quickly following his example and leaving the younger kids to gather up the mess of spilled bars, chips and sodas. They quick-stepped after the hunter who crossed the tiles with the fastest yet quietest step Rick had ever seen. He couldn't help smiling after the three, heard the quiet laughter of the others watching them go. He sent a quick prayer that no trouble found them.

Before his son could get started on prodding him into physical therapy again, the women began passing around the food and drinks. Lori actually gathered a few things and sat across from Rick to pass them over to him and Carl. His tired mind turned to calculations, icy-clear blue eyes studying the unhappy woman from a stoic expression. His boy finally sat down, politely thanking his mother as he accepted a bag of chips and a couple bottles, passing the water to his dad and keeping a red Powerade for himself. The amnesiac sipped thoughtfully, watching his ex-wife avoid his gaze and remembering their last real conversation. A hissed argument in the tent back at the quarry while Carl slept. Probably slept.

With how Carl seemed to be slipping away from his mother more and more often, he wasn't sure anymore if it was attachment after thinking he was dead or something darker. Rick had kept his voice low and as calm as possible, which had only infuriated the woman for some reason. Her hissed vocals had risen several times.

Rick had accepted the fact that Lori had wanted a divorce. Lori hadn't. She'd tried to insist that she would be his wife again, that she had to support him through his loss of memory. That he would _need_ her. Rick sure as Hell didn't think he needed her to survive, not after what he'd already been through. And _boy,_ that had set her off. She'd blasted off a list of things she knew Rick couldn't do: cook first of all, clean next, or fix the plumbing _or-or-or._

All she'd succeeded in doing was pissing him off, trying to badger him with a list of flaws that went further and further away from their means of survival now. He'd finally growled, "Just because you think you know me, don't mean _I_ know _you._ Right now, I don't even _like_ you."

Finally, _finally,_ she'd shut up. Her big doe eyes went glassy for a long few seconds. Rick almost felt bad, but held his ground, didn't take it back. She went to bed, turning away from the boys as Rick settled on the ground next to Carl. There was definitely something wrong with their relationship if all he could feel after that argument was relief she'd stopped.

Lori tried to pass an oatmeal bar to Carl while he was eating chips, but the little boy scowled, "Dad doesn't like those," and passed his almost full nacho cheese Doritos over to Rick before prodding Duane for a share of his cheetos. Rick gave the bag a look of amused consternation, then shrugged good naturedly at the dark haired woman while he started eating. He didn't disagree with the boy. Just because it was probably healthier didn't mean he liked that crap. Her lips thinned, not taking any humor from the situation, then ate the health food bar herself.

When the amnesiac finished the bag and was wiping his orange fingers on his blue jeans, Carl excitedly asked to start his dad's training. Rick gave a tired nod, answering Jacqui and Andrea's playful questions with, "My boy's gonna be my physical therapist 'til I'm in tip top shape."

Sophia watched them with wide eyes as Grimes made his creaking way to a wide open space, son close under his arm, and innocently said, "That might take a long time, Mr. Grimes."

Carl snickered, joined by the majority of the group, as Rick dryly asked, "Oh really?" He shook his head with good humor, gesturing his boy to help him lay down on the summer warmed tile with a sigh. The group made easy small talk, the topics turning from wistful meals of the old world to what they wanted in a place to live. Washing machines were high on the list, to the men's amusement.

It didn't seem to require any memory at all to figure out the best ways to stretch various muscle groups. Just a little trial and error as man and boy experimented with what hurt a little, and what hurt way too much to do again. Rick focused on his legs first, hoping that by the time they were done they'd stop shaking. He'd just about forgotten any concerns he had over Lori trying to provide for him and was focused on stretching out the kinks in his back when it happened.

A sharp clang echoed from the far hall, behind a set of double doors. The entire group went silent. Dale, T-Dog and Duane all turned to face it in a split second. Adrenaline shot through his veins like a shot. A much needed drug in the face of danger that nevertheless brought back flashes of last night. The silence continued, though Rick wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear any soft sounds with the way his heartbeat echoed in his ears. Visions of muzzle flashes and the echoes of screams rang in his ears. Quietly, he gestured for Carl to help him up, moving slow and to keep as quiet as possible. Meeting Duane's eyes, he motioned to keep an eye on the glass windows. There were no foreign vehicles at least. None that hadn't already been there when they arrived anyway.

"It could-" Lori started softly only to be silenced at a sharp gesture by Jacqui. They all knew it could be Daryl and their group. There was no need to speak it aloud. If it was they'd all be fine. If it wasn't…

Jacqui reached for an axe from a splayed roll of weaponry, slipping it out as silently as she could. Andrea followed her example though she was probably wishing for her gun again, no matter that she'd never fired it before. Carol gathered Sophia in her arms and stood closer to Duane, protected and protective at the same time. Lori hovered, but didn't reach for a weapon, standing just behind the women who did and wringing her hands.

The silence continued, Rick counting forty heartbeats before the squeak of a sneaker echoed down the hallway. It wasn't the one Daryl and the other two had left down, but it could circle around. Quiet steps, more than one person at least, started to get closer to the double doors. Rick measured his breath to start controlling his heart rate. Plastic clicking and the shaking of capsules in prescription bottles became audible, so many rattling together they had to be pressed tight in a bag. Everyone tensed the closer the sounds got.

Slowly and with surprisingly steady hands, the cowboy lifted his saber from its sheath with nary a whisper in his right hand. With his left he pointed the Colt at the ground, carefully away from Carl, but ready for use. He had the quickest draw of all of them, maybe better than Daryl if he cared to test it. He cocked the hammer back. Carl stepped behind him.

Just before the people would reach the doors, a voice finally spoke, " _Damn it,_ Miguel. Esta fue la manera equivocada. I knew I shouldn't have listened to you."

Duane turned to get a line of fire, lifting his pistol carefully. Jacqui and Andrea raised their weapons with Dale, T-Dog and Rick.

"I-I'm sorry, Felipe, I thought-"

The doors swung open. Three Hispanic men looked up, then shouted in panic, English and Spanish words falling from their lips and handguns appearing in their hands. Dale shouted over the trio, "Easy! _Easy, boys!_ We don't want a firefight here!" Smart not to ask them to lay down their weapons just because they were out-manned. It would only make them more defensive and anxious; twitchy triggers were liable to go off.

When their panicked minds really took in the group, Rick could practically see something calm in them. They still breathed heavily and aimed their weapons, but they'd stopped posturing and threatening. The whites of their eyes vanished as each man took in their group, lingering on the children, flicking to the dark skinned T-Dog and Jacqui, then back to Dale who happened to be closest. After another five seconds, the guns stopped shaking. No one lowered their weapon.

"Alright," Dale began soothingly. Rick admired his smooth cadence in the face of danger, "We don't want any trouble here. We just came inside to rest. You obviously came here for some medicine and that's fine."

The youngest and still most frightened looking snapped back, "We _know_ it's fine, old timer! You _pendejos_ need to back the fuck up!"

"Miguel!" the larger one growled, scowling at the skinny boy. "We came up on _them._ They just defending themselves."

"That's right, we don't mean any harm," their elder continued, "If we could all just lower-" Dale's mouth dropped open in shock as the double doors swung once again, revealing a dangerous looking Dixon, focused on his prey and the only sound of his arrival the squeaking of the doors held open by a determined Amy and Glenn.

All three Latino men yelped a variety of curses, panicking once more and unsure of where to point their weapons. The teenage Miguel was the most frightened, knees shaking and head whipping back between the archer and the cowboy in particular. "Felipe," he whimpered. They were no longer really listening to the white-haired spokesman.

Rick grit his teeth, thoughts lightning fast as he focused on how to de-escalate the situation again. Finally, he decided to try and just lighten the mood and spoke loudly so his voice carried over Dale's calm entreaties. "Hey Daryl! Your timing really could use some improvement!"

The strangers settled into heavy breathing as they finally stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle to deal with being surrounded. Their stuffed backpacks and messenger bags made it difficult to stay close.

Daryl never let his eyes leave their targets, "I dunno, I thought I did alright. They never saw me comin'."

"And you almost got us shot," T-Dog joined in, only half-teasing, "Good job, cracker jack."

"Naw," the redneck drawled exaggeratedly, "You guys were supposed to shoot when they turned on me. These two were gonna close the steel doors again if they fired. It's you lot that's missed your chance."

Dale sighed in exasperation, "And _yet,_ " he paused for dramatic affect, "No one shot anyone. So since we're agreed that nobody wants to kill anyone today, could we please put the guns down?"

After a long moment, the unnamed man of the trio nodded, glancing back at his companions to get their cooperation. Felipe sighed through his nose, "Yeah, yeah alright," continuing over Miguel's protests, "We're surrounded anyway- _shut up_ coz." The quarry group's guns lowered at the same pace as the strangers'.

Pushing back his fishing cap, Dale scolded like a school teacher, "Daryl."

"What?" he asked back petulantly, "You said _guns._ " Carl and Duane snickered. The Hispanic men smiled anxiously, and the archer finally relented, resting his crossbow on his shoulder and showing off the intimidating strength of his biceps while he stalked towards them. Rick joined him, circling Dale until he'd gotten their attention and thus any targets away from the women and children. Glenn and Amy stepped through, joining the main group, but on the other side of a row of chairs. Both circling men stopped outside of arm's reach, not welcoming any other kind of formal greeting. The cowboy raised a single brow and gave the redneck a _look._ "Found this lot makin' a shit ton of noise ahead of us. Sounds like they take care of a lot a old timers, like On Golden Pond here," Daryl gave in with a short explanation.

After exchanging a couple paranoid glances that Rick was sure meant no one had noticed them being tailed by the hunter or his two companions, Felipe nodded. He adjusted his backpack straps, then added, "I'm a special care provider, worked at a nursing home inside Atlanta. When the virus hit, all the staff, they abandoned the old folks. Only Guillermo and I stayed for them." Blue eyes met, amnesiac and Dixon, before they pointedly glanced at the man's partners. "When the vatos came around to check on their families, some of the them stuck around. We do alright now."

Rick hummed neutrally, privately wondering if that was true. They'd obviously came there on a supply run, but were bogged down with overstuffed bags and lost on top of that. They didn't exactly scream _prepared._ Honestly, the cowboy wouldn't be surprised if they had barely any ammo either. Their white haired peace-maker stepped a little closer, looking at Rick almost as if for permission before he spoke. Grimes watched back curiously, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't read the man like he seemed to do automatically with Dixon.

"Well, since it seems you've already been around here a while…" no objections or interruptions were made. The quarry group was curious and trusting; the strangers only listened politely, probably used to respecting their elders. "Have you checked out the CDC up the road from here?"

The one man he hadn't caught the name of frowned first, followed by the other two, before he spoke, "Nah, not really. I mean-" he turned slightly towards Felipe who finished sentence.

"We drove by before stopping around here. Didn't see any dead walking around, but wasn't no military living either."

From the far side of the room, Duane piped up, "So nobody was there? Was it rundown?"

Instantly a ball of dread curled in Rick's stomach. Had the Center for Disease Control fallen before they could make any headway on the virus? He hadn't even considered that. He'd thought for sure the presence of a refugee center and military protection meant the scientists had been working long enough for _something._

Miguel shrugged, "It had all that, I dunno-sheet metal? Blocking all the entrances. It was locked up anyway, dunno if there was anybody inside."

"We didn't stop to check," Felipe continued, "Our people need medicine more than they do us risking our lives to check it out."

Rick felt the words like a criticism, though he knew the stranger likely had no idea how that would be interpreted. His lips pursed, fingers tightening on the grips of his weapons as he looked down at the floor with a sigh. Logically, he knew it was just the fact that most of their people were senior citizens; of course they desperately needed medicine. Felipe wasn't saying anything against Rick's desire to seek out the CDC for information. But it sounded like Morgan's only chances were if someone was still alive in there or if the building wasn't as secured as it looked, and if that were the case, he wouldn't find any people. Living ones anyway.

He glanced up at Daryl who just watched him steadily, not judging him at all, waiting on his word. Then over to his left at Dale and T-Dog, who just seemed concerned more than anything. The others clustered together behind the strangers, uncertain and quiet. But when he faced those three strangers again a decision settled over him.

Maybe it wasn't the right one, not for the End of Days. But it was the Right one for him. For the man he was discovering he was.

Rick began solemnly, "Our group has done pretty well with scavenging. Before we were in Atlanta we unloaded a hospital, grabbed everything viable, so we're doing alright for medicine. Why don't you come check it over, see if there's anything we can share? Maybe you can tell us more about the medicines we don't know nothing about."

The Hispanics' eyes popped and jaws dropped. The teenager squeaked, "Really?! You'd _really_ help us?"

None of the quarry group spoke against it, though a few bit their lips to do it. Rick holstered the Python, sheathed the Saber, then let his hand fall over his son's dark hair. He knew the difficulty he was choosing, kindness over practicality. Shane probably would've said it was a kindness not to kill them and take their shit. There would be plenty of hard decisions to make down the road. This didn't have to be one of them. Let his son, let these people know they didn't have to be callous to live in this new, cruel world.

"Yeah. I'll help you. Dale, help me get the med bags from the RV?"

The old man swung his rifle back over his shoulder, looking pleased to do so. "You bet." He added, "I hope you know your stuff, Felipe. There's a wide variety in there for all sorts of things." Said man nodded, still stunned by the generosity, but the third man was already opening a messenger bag.

Right on top were little boxes of children's cough syrup. "Your group will have more use for some of this stuff than we will. We don't have any chiquitos back home."

Carol lit up like a sunrise. The rest of the group eased as well, no longer frustrated over Rick's unilateral decision. Dale, Rick, Carl, and Daryl led the way to the glass doors, followed by their new friends.

The release of tension after the standoff was like the relief of rain over parched land, a dearly needed thing after their night of terror. Conversations started again, T-Dog offered the Latinos a few leftover snacks while Sophia shyly gave them two water bottles. They thanked everyone graciously, smiling widely like they still couldn't believe what was happening. Amy and Glenn started consuming their own lunches while showing off what they'd gathered from the clinic.

When about half the group was outside, bottles and inhalers, liquids and pills being sorted and explained, a wall of noise and heat washed over them. Down the street where their runners had gone, a plume of fire mushroomed in the air, intense and sucking the breath from everyone around.

Rick watched with horror, unable to breath around the vice in his chest. "Oh God," he whispered.

Shane. Morgan.

What had his choices wrought?


	6. TS-19 and HW-85

Daryl stared dumbfounded at the sky, watching the fire ebb and well higher and higher. The atmosphere sucked it up like a funnel; the wind spread the heat at least as far as where they stood. Georgia humidity steadily evaporated, drying out his eyes and lungs like stepping into a sauna.

 _What the Hell._

 _What the-Merle. Shit. Merle!_

Those that stayed in the waiting room ran toward them en masse, turning to stare in horror at the explosion less than a mile away. Expletives littered the air, fear rising like a palpable scent as people shifted from staring at the fire to watching their surroundings with dread. That's right, the _undead_ will be drawn to it, he remembered. _Fuck._

"I ain't… I ain't…" he muttered, shaking his head in denial.

He didn't know what to say. That fire and these people versus just four men? He couldn't leave his brother. Not again. Not when he'd fucking _walked_ into Atlanta for his doped up ass the first time. Merle was just a five minute drive away. If he was- _if he was-_

"I'm not leaving without my Dad!" Duane suddenly shouted above the group's panicked voices. Everyone turned to stare at him.

Then Carl took advantage of the silence to make himself heard, repeated what Daryl had barely registered, "We can't leave them. Not when we're so close."

"I hate to say it," Jacqui began, her body tense and hands shaking into fists, "But if they were in that, we'd be sitting ducks for nothing. I _hate_ to say it." She shook her head, eyes tearing as she stared down at the ground before blinking hard to pull the emotions back, tilting her gaze up to stare at the sky on fire again.

"We wait."

The cowboy's gravel-ridden voice grabbed all of their attention. His face was as still as a man-made pond, eyes shuttered and cold. Even the strangers were drawn into his fearsome expression. He met each individual, not missing a single person with conviction. "We wait thirty minutes. Then we head back to the road into Atlanta. Make a sign. And we wait the night close by. That's what we do."

All at once Daryl remembered the rules Morgan and Rick had spouted off before the herd found them last night. That clever bit of work that would keep people safe while still giving others a chance. Relief burned cold through him; he sighed through his nose, pushed the anxiety and fear back down where it belonged so he could keep his head.

Felipe stepped up to Rick's side, looking apologetic but afraid, "Hey, uh… I'm sorry, man. But we gotta go. We still gotta get back to our car, and if that fire is drawing them from miles around, we gotta go _now._ " Miguel and the other guy were packing their chosen medicines haphazardly in their rush, bags half full already.

"I'll make you a deal," the amnesiac countered. Dixon blinked, and couldn't help thinking, _another one?_ The balls on the man. "We finish up this trade. You wait with us the thirty minutes and we'll give you a ride back to your car as we go."

Miguel paused, obviously tempted not to walk in this heat, with that beacon overhead drawing the dead upon them. His cousin wavered, glancing between the still unsorted medicines and his own companions. They didn't have any water of their own, nor food. Daryl was pretty damn sure any ammunition they had was only _in_ their two guns, and was very little to begin with. Still, he was a bit surprised when all the Latinos nodded in agreement and turned back to the ground to sort the medicines as quickly as they could. On their side, Dale gratefully continued and Amy hustled over to help.

The others huddled closer, worry written large on their faces, across their jittery skin. Sophia clung to her mother, and even Carl accepted his own mother's tight hug. Daryl almost forgot how young the boy was until he suddenly looked his age again. He didn't know if anyone else was watching, but the hunter was waiting for a cue from the man and saw the change come over Rick in slow motion.

Those icy blue eyes softened when he scanned the group again. Grimes' expressive face changed from stone to empathy, to understanding. When he opened his mouth, only Daryl was unsurprised by the low, sympathetic tone. "If they're on their way it won't take thirty minutes. Unless someone's injured or they have to go around a herd. That's what the extra time is for."

"We could go get them," Lori announced, lip trembling but trying to put on a brave face. Rick was already shaking his head though. "We _could-_ "

"No. _We can't,_ " he insisted. The amnesiac glanced around to take a consensus and Daryl guessed enough people were looking at him like he was heartless, that he kept going, "We're just as likely to pass them by. What if we missed each other? Want them to come here and find us gone after just ten minutes? Or what, we split up again? A couple more people go out there with no clue where Morgan, Shane, Merle and Jim are comin' from and pass right by them. Then we got even more people missing. More people in danger.

"We have _to wait._ "

Dixon swallowed a lump in his throat, following the man's logic with no mental difficulty but plenty of physical. He itched to do something, but damn it, the memory patient was right. And everyone else knew it too.

With the group all on the same page, their charismatic leader instructed people to gather their things and get back in the vehicles, ready to go at a moment's notice. No one was to start the engines. No noise, moving as quiet as possible. He picked out Glenn, T-Dog and Daryl to keep a perimeter with him. To always stay in view of another person to watch their backs for walkers. Kill single ones, but partner up for small groups.

Anything bigger… They would start up and skip out before the thirty minutes was up. They couldn't get themselves killed waiting.

Daryl readjusted his bow, the hefty weight a welcome exercise for his anxiety. He paced between the horse trailer, the last of the vehicles, and the hospital walls. T-Dog stood on the other side of the brush, also in the middle of the road, whites of his eyes showing and sweat pouring down his bald head. His handgun tapped against his thigh. At Daryl's back, forming the third corner of the rectangular boundary, by the first station wagon was the cowboy leaning against a lampost. Tired but sharp eyed, the man's hand hovered over his gun but kept the sword at hand. Silent weapons to keep from drawing more than the few distant undead they could already see going by.

"Alright, thank you very much for this," Dale said, catching Daryl's attention. The trade was complete, everyone's medical bags full to bursting, so hopefully Rick was right to trust those fellas and Dale to keep things fair. Amy was smiling, even if it was coupled with wary, darting looks around them.

Just when the Latinos began to look at each vehicle, obviously wondering where to go, Rick stepped backward toward them. With an eagle eye on their surroundings, he quietly pointed out, "You'll get a quicker jump to your car from the back of a truck bed. Or you can crowd into the RV with Dale and Amy."

And a crowd it would be. They had two trucks, the Dixon's and the one hitched with the horse trailer, both of which seated only three. The Peletier station wagon was reserved for Carol and Lori, their kids and probably one of the cops. The RV held everybody else.

With a peek at the luggage in each truck bed, the men collectively chose to climb into the one with the trailer hitch. Probably wouldn't be appealing to get caught under Merle's Triumph on a sharp turn. Daryl was only watching in his peripheral, and so spied movement at almost the same time as his closest watch member. T-Dog called out, "We got bodies coming!"

But in the next instance the hunter's keen gaze spied identifying markers, noticed his brother's broad shoulders and sunburned skin. "It's them! They're back!"

"Alright, let's move!" Rick roared, bolting for the horse trailer. Noise started up in the sudden hurry, eight-no, _seven_ men pounding the pavement and yelling for them to _go, go, go!_ Daryl listened, backtracking to his truck and starting it as quickly as he could. He put his crossbow in the center of the bench just as his brother yanked open the passenger seat.

"What's with the _beaners,_ little brother?" Daryl knew the soldier was sneering without looking. Through the open windows he could hear Shane shouting a similar, " _Rick!_ What the Hell?!"

"Don' matter right now," the archer muttered, spinning the wheel and driving over the grass, trusting the truck was high enough to clear the overgrown flowers in the middle. Out Merle's window he could see Rick backing up way too fast, bouncing the horse trailer over the long grass before turning the wheel and gunning it. He must've gotten Morgan quicker than Merle had hopped in, because he pulled out on the road before the Dixons could. The nursing home guys clung to the truck bed and pointed out directions to their car, shouting a little when a couple walkers appeared from around the corner of the closest building. The rotters were too late though. The group was finally hightailing it the fuck out of there.

Behind Daryl the station wagon started to catch up and he glimpsed Shane behind the wheel. In their wake, Dale maneuvered that whale of an RV onto the university road with wide turns. A side glimpse at his brother let him know the man was glaring ahead of them at the horse trailer, spitting out the open window in irritation. The hunter ignored it, focused on his driving when the first of their caravan started to slow and turn into another part the hospital complex. On their left a parking deck with row upon row of dusty cars seemed to be their destination. Daryl's prediction proved true as the trailer slowed to a stop ahead of them and he followed suit, overlooking his brother's grumbled curses.

Shane pulled the station wagon up along side then kept going, and Daryl joined the cursing, though for a different reason. The RV followed the yellow car, making the Dixon's truck last in the line up this time. Ahead of them he could hear voices, angry shouting and then the strangers were leaving the caravan. One… two…

The archer drummed his fingers, counting the seconds until the final man, Felipe, appeared from around the trailer. He moved in jerks and stutters, and seemed pale under his tanned skin. The man looked like he'd seen a ghost. What the Hell were they arguing about up there?

An undead snarl distracted him, whipping his gaze to Merle's window. "Shit," he muttered, even as the caravan jolted into motion once more. His brother didn't even bother to look concerned; too cool to care about the rotting human that had appeared four feet away from him. _Asshole,_ Daryl thought blandly. The station wagon pulled ahead of the hitched truck, but the road curved and the RV pulled ahead for some godforsaken reason. Though the damn thing would probably make a good battering ram for the walkers that were creeping up on their asses.

Or maybe it was because whoever was in there was a damn good navigator. It wasn't long before they were exiting the twists and turns of student suburbia and escaping out onto a small freeway. None of the roads were fully cleared, so they couldn't speed, but they never had to stop for red lights. When that finally turned into highway 155, Daryl felt the tension ease from him. Everyone was accelerating, putting miles between them and that bomb at long last.

"So," his elder brother started with hostility, "You finally gonna tell me what the fuck was up with those spics?"

Daryl spared a few seconds to glare at him. "Think that bigass explosion trumps givin' strangers a quick ride."

Merle harrumphed back, then melted a little in resignation. Which was unusual enough the archer almost let off the gas in his distraction. The defeated slump to his brother's shoulders was something Daryl saw rarely. Maybe once a year if Merle was around enough for them to live together again. Something happened if he was acting like this. Something bad…

The younger Dixon let the silence carry, knowing eventually either the redneck would give in or he'd hear about it from the other runners. There was always Morgan. He was a friendly enough guy, would probably tell him with little prompting. If there wasn't some big group meeting again, the likes of which cowboy-Rick seemed inordinately fond of. Daryl let his elbow hang out the window, holding the steering wheel with a lightly bored touch. He followed along the curve as the RV chose an on ramp for Highway 285, the Atlanta Perimeter, for some reason.

They were fully south of the city now, though why they were taking the expressway to the airport he didn't know. This was almost directly westward. The sun was starting to set so Daryl flipped the truck's sun visor down, but it wasn't enough to keep him from squinting in the glare. Maybe he'd pick up a pair of sunglasses next time they went scavenging. Should've picked through a few desks himself when he guarded Glenn and Amy... All the same, he hadn't minded standing guard for them. They were efficient young adults, communicating in short sentences and hand signals when they could. A little more experience would make them excellent scouts. Both had listened without question when the hunter stopped them from leaving a room; he'd been the first to hear the vatos before they came around a corner. The redneck would readily admit, he'd been stunned to find them following his lead. And so easily too.

It kinda blew his mind.

No one had ever followed _him_ like that. Trusted him like that. It'd made his skin break out in chill bumps.

Until he had better reasoning, Daryl would have to assume they followed him because they were smart enough to recognize he had more fighting experience than both young'uns combined. He tapped his fingers again, wishing there was something on the radio besides static. Sitting in silence by himself was just fine. He preferred it most often. Sitting in silence with Merle, or people like him, made the hunter jittery. He didn't want to speak, but he couldn't abide loudmouths going against their nature. His suspicious mind came up with all kinds of shit in the quiet.

Had the runners managed to get inside the CDC, but set off some sort James Bond-esque self destruct sequence? Had they learned Jack squat or just really shitty news? A bad feeling curdled his gut. The reasoning was right on the tip of his tongue. His fingers twitched again, itching for a cigarette. Those were in short supply nowadays. Everyone had known something bad happened when that fire lit up the skyline. But Daryl noticed was something off when the runners came back, hadn't he? It just wasn't sinking in yet…

Four runners. Four men on look out. Four runners… Four… And only seven men running for the vehicles when they were bugging out. Shit… Unable to keep quiet any longer, Daryl let out a short grunt to get his brother's attention then asked, "Who we missin'?"

"Hm, what?" Merle grated back, genuinely confused. The archer supposed it had been about an hour since they'd gotten the Hell outta dodge.

He explained, "Only heard three guys come back. You were missin' someone." Not Shane. They heard his loud voice driving the station wagon at the parking garage. Left only Morgan or Jim. That bad feeling spiked a bit and Daryl was ready to bet his arrows on the frail man being gone. Bet his crossbow Jim got himself killed too.

"Yeah," his older brother drawled. The big man shifted, a bit uncomfortable about something. "Yeah. Ol' Jimbo stayed behind."

Daryl gave an acknowledging hum, but let it go. _Something_ shook his brother out there, and wasn't any of the usual stuff or Merle wouldn't be so stuck in his own head. There was a complicated issue he was mentally gnawing on and who knew when it would get resolved. _If_ it would. If Merle wouldn't rather cut and run, like he always did when he couldn't figure shit out. That tactic was why the soldier had had multiple warrants out in a couple nearby states before the world went to Hell.

The hunter wondered if he'd be enough to keep his brother around this time. He didn't want to leave the group, no matter how much his instincts made him resist it like an outdoor cat forced inside; logically, he knew better. He could survive on his own. But that's all he could do. Survive. And that was a quickfire way to make living not seem worth it. People were more than just bodies to protect against the dead. More people covered more ground searching for things in less time. They were more hands on weapons and more hands to heal hurts. Sure, more people meant more mouths to feed, but it would be worth it these days. Probably.

The empty highway curved just before the Atlanta International Airport came into view. Their caravan passed the exit for it, but started to slow and shift lanes for the junction with Interstate-75. Daryl followed along, curious and wondering if the RV was ever going to slow down and tell everybody where the Hell they were going. Neither Rick or Shane were in the lead vehicle. Not that they were the only people that could make decisions, but they were definitely the men who lit a fire under the group's asses. Their cars passed the I-75 North sign, but kept on the right, choosing the smaller highway 85's on ramp heading south.

Pine trees started up along their lanes, blocking the Perimeter and Interstate from view for a moment. Daryl frowned as nobody picked up speed, and a moment later hazard lights appeared on the RV, followed by one car after another. They all came to a full stop before they could enter the 85 roadway. He turned off the Dixon truck, grumbling a low, "'Bout time," then hopped out with his brother.

Carrying his bow and keeping his head on a swivel, the hunter stalked to the center of the caravan where everyone was quickly gathering. Merle followed along, a high powered rifle held across his chest at the ready. Rick and Morgan hovered together ten feet from the cars and watching the trees, letting the company gather behind them. The Dixons acted as the rearguard, and at least Glenn was watching the front. Any and all soft words, not quite conversations, ended when Jacqui spoke up in a firm tone, " _Where_ is Jim?"

Shane bowed his head. Morgan sighed and Merle didn't shift to face the others when his brother did. Silence held until finally the Sheriff's Deputy answered, "Jim decided to stay behind. When we got to the CDC it was locked up, but I guess the cameras and mikes worked alright, because a Dr. Jenner came to talk to us."

"He wanted us to leave," the older Jones continued, putting an arm around his son and reminding Daryl of that missing mother figure they'd lost to the virus. "Said the generators were out of fuel and the place would decontaminate itself with an HIT. An explosive. And he was staying there, but didn't want us to get caught in the blast."

"Said he was _opting out,_ " Merle piped up, getting people's attention but only showing them his back. His younger brother was the single witness to the profile of Merle's conflicted expression. "And Jim decided to do the same. Rather go up in split second o'fire than live in this world anymore."

The mood of the entire group changed, depressing shoulders and lowering gazes to the ground. Jacqui lifted a hand to her mouth and looked to the sky with watering eyes. She sucked back a deep breath, keeping the cry down, and Amy put an arm around her in comfort. Rick sighed, posture slouching. He asked, "Guess he didn't have a cure then. Did he tell you anything about the virus itself before…?"

"A bit, yeah," his old partner confirmed, then fell silent. Those dark eyes touched on Merle and Morgan, considering and uncertain all of them. The cowboy called Shane's name in concern, brow furrowing. Walsh sighed and shook his head, "It's ah… It's not what we thought: the virus."

The African American took mercy on him, "Bites kill, no doubt about that. Dead bodies carry a lot of bacteria that will kill anybody, antibiotics or not. Dr. Jenner didn't know whether an amputation would keep people alive since he'd never tried it. It would have to be done as quick as possible, but if we had the supplies to keep someone alive after, they'd have a decent shot."

"You said, _bites_ kill…" Dale began cautiously. Daryl followed along with the old man's slow words, "But the virus itself _doesn't?_ "

A knot of foreboding welled up in the hunter's throat. The virus wasn't contagious like they thought. If it didn't spread from person to person, bites and scratches... He watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. The man stared at the horizon with a thousand yard stare, back straight and rifle up. Daryl hadn't seen him like that since he came back from his first tour. Morgan and Shane shook their heads in confirmation. A tremor of nerves cascaded over people while they waited for someone to speak up.

Eventually the officer snarled out, "We're carriers. We're _all_ carriers. You die and the virus brings you back, don't matter how you died. You just _do._ "

"Oh God." That phrase was whispered a lot, along with denials and half-thought out questions, wondering what this all meant for them. It was still sinking in, the implications. _Everyone_ had it. If something happened… If they fell off a bridge or crashed a car or… Anything that killed a person and didn't crack their skull open left them a walker.

"Well that explains a lot," Daryl muttered, lost in the chaos of rising voices. Didn't it? It sure as Hell explained where all those undead came from in hordes. With an Earthly population in the billions, and billions being born and dying everyday, no wonder there were so many dead wandering the streets. Nevermind all the ones the undead killed in addition. They'd be living through this for years… Decades maybe?

"Now _hold up!_ Just-just quiet down a minute," Dale called out. The sudden rise in volume had the troop scanning the woods, ready for walkers in the gloam, and falling silent while they waited. When it was thought safe enough to turn back toward the center of the caravan, the white haired fella added, "This doesn't really change much if you think about it." Immediate denials came from several people and Dale had to speak up a little more to continue, "No, no. It doesn't. People died every day. Every single day someone special to someone else died. It's not pretty or kind, but it's the truth. I lost my wife to cancer and I thank God she didn't have to see this. And that I don't have to deal with it infecting her and re- _reanimating_ her. But to be honest, besides the walkers, all that changes for the living-for _us,_ is knowing that we'll have to… ah, well…"

"Scramble your _brains_ when you bite the big one," Merle finished up crudely. Lori and Carol winced, hands going to their little ones who were scrunching up their little faces in disgust. Duane went still and sad, likely thinking of his mother. Daryl idly wondered how long it took for Mr. Jones to finish up with Mrs. Jones.

"Dale's right," Rick lowly added on, drawing everyone's attention. The cowboy tilted his leather hat back, blue eyes narrowed on the group and one hand flexing on his civil war sword. "This doesn't change things we already knew. _Don't get bit._ Hopefully we don't have to worry about anyone dying from natural causes or an accident for a long while yet. Until then, I want us to decide where we're goin'. Dale, you were driving the RV, did you have an idea besides heading south?"

The segment of the group from that boat of a vehicle shifted, peering at one another like they weren't sure who had the answer. Finally Glenn gave in and said, "I dunno, I just thought we should drive away from where people would be. There's more suburbs north of Atlanta than south of it. But I mean, east is the coast? Maybe we should go that way, find _an island_ or something."

Rick tilted his head from side to side, rolling the idea around in his head. But Jacqui shut it down quick, voice thick with restrained grief, "You don't wanna do that. Savannah had a hundred and fifty thousand people. And no island close enough for us to get to will have any kind of civilization on it. Probably have to build everything from scratch. And deal with tropical storms on top of that."

"Lotta game though," Daryl wondered aloud. Then he hummed and looked at the officers, "But if we're just looking for game, water, an' no walkers we'd be heading for the woods. Mebbe Chattahoochee Forest, or head up into the mountains."

"And be huddled around campfires all winter with no walls?" his brother sneered. Merle sucked his teeth and growled, "That may be _your_ idea of a vacation, little brother, but I'd rather have four walls and a roof over my head."

Behind them the horse shifted, blowing a loud sigh of air out the trailer window then dropping her head to watch them all with a curious brown eye. Like the way people caught yawns from one another, their cowboy sighed back, staring at the animal over everyone's heads. The man fidgeted, hands dropping to his belt buckle for a moment and then his weapons once more.

"I don't know about you lot," Grimes began, watching the clouds roll above them for a long moment, "But I want something more than just four walls and a roof over my head. Don't know how long it'll take before any form of government begins again. I'd rather rely on each other. Rely on the people _here_ I know and trust." The amnesiac scanned all of their faces, finding hope and longing in return. These people wanted more than to survive. Daryl could feel it. Feel it like hair rising up on his arms and neck from just the tone of Rick's voice.

"I don't know where it is, but there's a place out there for us. We can _find it._ I want strong walls. Not just houses, I want _walls_ up and a gate. Maybe not a gated community that's nothing but houses. I want some land inside the walls, for fresh food and livestock. There's surviving and there's _living._ " Those were Daryl's thoughts spoken aloud and he felt chill bumps spread down his back in response. Still, Rick kept up his speechmaking, keeping all of them enthralled with a soft voice, "If we want to stay strong, we're going to need to grow our own food. Clothes will fall apart in a few years. I'd like to figure out how we can make our own. When we have a place to stay, we could collect books," the amnesiac laughed a little, looking down like he was remembering something. A soft smile was shared with everyone. "Scavenge from universities and keep textbooks; maybe teach ourselves to set up solar panels. Make some electricity when the gas runs out. It'll be hard work. _All of it._ Every moment of every day, maybe. It'll be hard. But I think it'll be worth it."

Around the rednecks, the Atlanta born troop began to nod. First Carl, Morgan and Duane. Then Shane, and Lori and the rest, looking more and more hopeful the more they just looked at each other. It was like they were feeding on one another as the mood grew. Daryl didn't know how he did it, but somehow Rick had pulled them up from the depths of despair to highs no one had probably felt since before the outbreak.

"Alright," Rick gave a half smile then tapped his temple, "I'm glad you're all on board, but uh… I could use some suggestions, for where to look. My memory ain't what it used to be."

Most of the crowd smiled back at him, shifting and visibly thinking. The archer wasn't sure what to contribute. He had more experience in the woods than roaming towns; nothing came to mind very quickly. Duane was the first to speak up, "Sometimes schools have fences."

Lori nodded her dark head in agreement, but reminded him, "But not a lot. It's not very common outside of the cities. And if we're avoiding people, most small towns won't put any fences around their schools."

There was a collective hum as locations were considered. Shane offered louder, "There's Fort Benning."

Morgan made an uncertain sound, "That's a Hell of a drive, and it's right next to Columbus, 'nother city. Besides, we have to consider the size of the place we want. We would have to clear it of walkers, and defend it after. I don't want to live right on top of each other, but the place can't be too big either."

Officer Walsh gave an aggravated sigh, glancing between Morgan and Rick the same way he passed his shotgun from hand to hand, "Well shit. You two lookin' for some place real or a goddamned castle?"

The amnesiac smirked, "I'd like a castle. You know where one of those are in Georgia?"

The children laughed, likely imagining a fairy tale life with undead they could fight off with sword and shield. Then again… Maybe Rick wasn't too far off with that sword on his hip. The archer didn't figure bullets would last forever, unless they found a book that could tell them how to _make_ bullets. Like the man said about textbooks… Daryl started to feel a bit of that hope for himself. Maybe they really could do this.

"Pfft," his older brother blew an offensive breath between his lips, sounding annoyed by the chatter. Merle was a man of action, he didn't care much for planning shit out and would rather drive off than figure out where to go first. "You'd be better off finding a prison. Least every county has a jail we could look at if you have'ta be like Goldilocks and get it _just right._ "

About half the people around appeared irritated by the suggestion, taking it in the tone it was meant for. Narrow blue eyes widened as the idea sunk in for Daryl just like it did for some of the others: Shane, Morgan and Rick, Jacqui, Glenn and Dale. All the more practical people. Slowly Morgan turned to the former Deputy, "That… could work. That could work real well."

Shane nodded, lips pursed in thought, "I don't know most of them personally. And we won't want the big prisons, cause like you said: bigger place, the more we have to clean out and defend."

"They won't be on a road map. We'll have to stop in the different counties, figure out where they are to take a look," Rick joined in. The others, the people who hadn't caught on to the prospects of the suggestion at first seemed to slowly accept it, or at least were willing to consider the idea. Glenn stepped into the middle, unfolding the huge road map of Georgia from his back pocket.

While the cops sidled closer, Daryl shifted to cover their backs and face the little stretch of woods. It only took a few minutes for them to decide to head further south along the lesser 85 since they were already there. The stretch of land between Interstate 85 and Interstate 75 was all small towns, farms and woods. If they could find a place before winter, it'd be in there. Everyone threw out estimates on travel time and ideas on where to stop for the night, eventually landing on just before Fayetteville at the first decent place to sleep before the sun set, giving them time to scout while they still had daylight.

With the plan in place, everybody jogged for the vehicles to get on their way. _Finally,_ Daryl thought, glad to be behind the wheel again while his brother pointed his rifle out the window, ready for walkers. They continued on with that station wagon taking point this time, and Rick pulled aside to motion the Dixon truck ahead of him, making the horse trailer last so it could take those wider turns without ruining the line of sight for cars behind him. The hunter gave a two fingered salute in return.

Merle hacked a lob of spit out the window and scoffed, "You really like that Jason Bourne asshole, don't you." Despite his expression, Daryl didn't hear any hostility in his tone. That was yet another thing that would surprise people about the old redneck. As much as Merle really was a 'good old boy' of Southern America, he'd always protect his baby brother first. And if his brother was a faggot… Well, ain't nobody was going to call a Dixon queer except him.

His hick of a brother could go on for days, teasing Daryl about wearing heels or purses just to get his dander up, but he'd be the first one to defend him if some yahoos thought they could get the jump on him for leaving a gay bar. Feeling too good to care much, Daryl just rolled his eyes, "You keep goin' on about it. You tryin' to set me up on a date or somethin'? Feel like matchmakin', Merle?"

"Aw, fuck you, Darleena." The soldier sucked his teeth with an annoying whistle, ignoring Daryl's half-hearted swat. For a moment, the driver refocused on the road while an accident and a couple walkers blocked one lane. Then his passenger declared, "Though I wouldn't mind you actin' like a proper wingman, start settin' poor ol' Merle up on some nice dates."

Daryl chuckled, peeking at his smirking older sibling for a second and being treated to the first bit of laughter he'd heard from Merle in weeks that wasn't drug induced. The caravan slowed, passing through Riverdale and all the accompanying signs of life interrupted. From the looks of things, the many stores and shopping centers congregated around the freeway with neighborhoods tucked behind them. This would be a place to check for loot once they had a base of operations to work out of.

The drive still took an hour longer than it would have before the dead walked. Daryl and Merle passed the time trading banter and barbs like they would on any other road trip. Signs for the much smaller town of Kenwood appeared, along with advertisements for Fun Spot America ahead of them. As the sun dipped low, the archer started to keep a keen eye for places to stay and the blinking lights of their caravan that would tell him when to stop.

He wasn't familiar with this stretch of 85, and it seemed no one else was neither. They didn't take any turn off, and actually passed that amusement park straight into Fayetteville instead of outside it as planned. There was nothing but shopping centers and restaurants as far as the eye could see.

"Don't know what they're waitin' on," Merle told him with a grumble, "I'da been happy with that mattress store back there."

Privately Daryl agreed with him, but kept his mouth shut. He drove one handed, swiping the other across his chin, thumbing at his mustache that could use another trim before it grew into his lip. Whatever they were looking for, it seemed they would find it in the town itself. Sure enough, as the sun started to set and the Dixons were getting even more anxious to stop, the station wagon pulled off at a Holiday Inn, of all places. Daryl spun the wheel, following along and leaving space for the horse trailer to form a huge barrier between the building and the crossroad next to them. He shared an expression of ' _what the fuck'_ with his brother before he hopped out.

The Dixons scowled at Shane and Lori who looked pretty darn pleased with themselves. Across from them Rick and Morgan exited their truck, weapons at the ready just like the redneck brothers. Once they were close enough and killed a single walker that had dragged itself into the parking lot with Rick's sword, the cowboy hissed at Shane, "This ain't exactly what I had in mind."

The former Deputy shrugged and pulled his knife, "It'll be good for us. Let everyone sleep in a bed before we're on the road for who knows how long." But his gimlet gaze flashed on Lori before returning to the group, letting anyone watching know just who's idea this was. Carol seemed relieved though, a few others too.

Daryl would pray this wasn't a bad idea if he thought it'd get him anywhere. As it was he just groaned in disbelief of their collective stupidity and turned back to his truck for more supplies. Apparently giving in as well, the amnesiac told everyone to grab a flashlight and a knife before anything else. It wasn't full dark yet, but it would be inside without any lights. When everyone was ready to defend themselves, even the children, Rick named a group to go in the hotel ahead of everyone else: Shane, Morgan, Merle with the cowboy making four.

The archer was a bit disgruntled to be left out and frowned at their leader. He was surprised to find Rick's blue eyes on him, anticipating him. With barely a gesture and a glance, Daryl realized the man meant for him to stay on guard for the others. He trusted the hunter to protect them. Daryl bobbed a nod, feeling a bit better about being on babysitting duty. A niggle of insecurity poked at him, making him wonder if this meant he was some kind of leader, to be trusted like this or if maybe Rick meant something else with his eyes… He swallowed and pushed the nerves aside, going with his gut.

As the runners plotted and slipped through the doors to the lobby, Dixon whisper-shouted, "'Member, no gunshots. Not if ya'll wanna stay here the night." Most people acknowledged him nonverbally, remaining quiet. He pointed at Glenn, Dale and T-Dog to move into position on a perimeter like the hospital.

Daryl was the first to have a walker stumble towards them. A real ugly looking one too, half its body flayed open with road rash. He whistled sharp to get people's attention, then held a hand up to hold them back. A jaunt and side step left a decayed skull open to his bowie knife. One down easy and he sidled back into position to show them how it's done.

A few minutes passed until the next one sauntered by from the opposite street. Glenn took it out quick and quiet on his feet. The archer listened hard to their surroundings, eyes working overtime in the twilight. There was one good thing about moving in the daylight, at least with this heat it seemed that most of the walkers became slow and lazy. During the night, in the cooler air… They became more active.

T-Dog stepped up to help the Asian man when two more shuffled close. Dale whispered his name when he spied a couple across their street. Daryl nodded and quick stepped half way across the road to meet them. He avoided clawing hands and slid his knife into the back of a dead man's skull while Dale used a machete to hack at a smaller dead woman's. That made six total and the adrenaline started to really kick in.

The hunter licked his lips, back on their perimeter and checking the alertness of those in the middle. No one seemed overly frightened yet, though Andrea was antsy, closer to their line than the others. Nothing moved on the streets, but half a minute later there was a rattle in the bushes. Those overgrown hedges could hide a full grown man and Daryl shifted to face them with his knife up.

He bounced on his toes, ready and waiting when the brush shifted again. Dixon inched closer, glancing over his back at Dale who was watching for him. _Maybe it was stuck in there?_ Going still as he pinpointed the final location, the redneck was shocked when a very differently shaped skull poked out between the shrubbery.

A canine whine followed as big brown eyes looked up at him in fear. And hope. Unable to turn away, Daryl slowly sheathed his weapon and followed the motion into a crouch. Behind him he heard someone coo over the animal, but Dixon saw nothing adorable about it. Hearing no other snarls of the undead, he focused on the mutt. It was coated in mud, probably guts too among other decayed body parts. Almost two feet tall at the shoulder, the archer thought despite its bony frame, it was young with paws too big for its feet. It crouched like Daryl, partially hidden in the hedge, but didn't show its teeth or raise its hackles against him. Seconds carried on before the animal shivered and gave the softest whine. _It's learned to be quiet to survive,_ he thought.

"Daryl?" Amy whispered, and he heard her sneakers scrape the concrete. The dog flinched and he waved a hand to keep her back. If the cowboy could drag a damn horse around, he could try to sweet talk this dog into coming along. Poor thing was scrawny and flea bitten, but it looked so darn _sad…_

Carefully, Daryl shrugged his crossbow so he could sit down, legs akimbo to block off access to the others in case the dog lunged. Frightened and cornered animals were the most unpredictable sort. When he bent his knee however, he heard the crinkling of a chip bag, belatedly remembering the leftover snack in his pocket from the hospital. Just as slowly, he pulled it out and opened it as quietly as he could. The animal's black, floppy ears perked. It recognized the food package from before, old enough to remember people and people-food then.

Chips were _definitely_ not alright for dogs, but the starving beast could use any calories it could get, he figured. The hunter tossed a piece, unsurprised when the dog flinched back at first. Then it's nostrils flared and it crept closer to the bite, eyes so wide the whites showed around the bright brown. In the next second it snapped the potato up and panicked eyes latched onto the bag in his hand. Daryl tossed another right away, reassuring the pup that he wasn't going to withhold food.

A third piece disappeared into that hungry maw before it's breathing slowed again and the archer tempted fate by leaving a fourth bite in the vee between his legs, equidistant from his feet. He studied the dog as it crept forward out of the brush. Black nails were filed short, paws a little bloody but he couldn't tell if the pads were cracked. A few rows of hairless skin raked across its back, scars from claws or maybe chain link fencing. Daryl sucked in his lower lip then hummed in empathy, the memory of his own scars flash-burning across his back. A fifth chip dropped between his knees and the dog stepped closer, watching his calm face in apprehension.

Ever so slowly, he held out the last one in the palm of his hand, lowered until it was below the dog's muzzle. It watched him still, soft black whiskers tickling his skin as it nudged him. Daryl kept his eyes gentle, face non-reactive as teeth brushed his flesh while it snapped up the last of his chips. When that hopeful doggy face remained close the hunter smiled involuntarily. _Yeah, this one's a good dog._

The muddy canine dipped its chin into the palm of his hand, then flinched and whined without reason. Dixon tilted his head, wondering as the animal trembled all over. Maybe it's jaw or neck was hurt, he thought, and moved his palm to the side, open to let it brush against the ear instead. It cried out again and Daryl shifted back in concern.

"What's wrong with it?" Amy asked, and the redneck glanced behind him. He'd earned a little audience while he worked. Andrea had stepped forward to hold his spot in the perimeter, but he couldn't see any other walkers dropped yet. The kids hovered by the younger blond, some six feet away.

"Don' know," he muttered, observing the beast again. Now that he was looking for it, he could tell the dog was male, yet there was nothing obvious about why it was yelping and remaining so close to him. Before he knew it the poor boy seemed to deliberately brush his shoulder against Daryl's knee and cry out again. And not like any dog whimper he'd ever heard before. The black muzzle chattered and ears trembled, but it watched Daryl's hands almost covetously rather than with fear.

Curious, the hunter dropped the chip bag for the dog to nose through and patiently waited while it licked the grease from the shiny plastic. Still, he didn't back away and panted in Daryl's face with hope for more food, probably…

"I think," the teenager behind him started then stopped. On the edge of his sight, Dixon noticed her sorrowful expression. "I think it's touch starved. I saw a video once, and the dog was a lot like that. Except it cried a even more."

 _Touch starved…_ The words echoed, Daryl's own reflexes springing to mind. Maybe this dog had had people at some point. But he didn't now. Anything the pup might recognize as people would rather eat him than give him pets. Taking a chance, the careful man softly held the dog's muzzle and the animal let him muffle the whimpers even as it pressed closer into his hold. He shushed the poor thing quietly and gentled him with his other hand, holding the dog instead of petting in case that overstimulated him.

Boot steps came into their field of hearing and everyone shifted to face the returning men as they came from around the back of the lobby building. Not a single shot had been fired, so Daryl hoped that was good news. All four guys took in the situation with slightly different expressions. Merle was scowling as expected, but Rick was smiling softly. Shane looked confounded and Morgan a mix between confused and pleased. Probably because all three of the kids were eager to pet the mangy cur he'd wrangled into his arms.

The animal was so light, he decided to just pick him up and carry him, instead of risking him running off, frightened by the others or a walker. The pup's whining carried under the soft tones of people questioning the men. There had been walkers in the hotel, but nothing they couldn't handle. Morgan swiped four key cards together on one side of the building facing the courtyard and pool rather than the street. Daryl was surprised to learn the electronic locks still worked. Apparently those ran on batteries.

"Yeah, fuel will only last five months at the most, a little more with some additives. But batteries will last years, maybe a decade in storage if they're the right brand," Morgan explained while everyone grabbed a duffle bag of personal supplies.

While Daryl juggled the dog, crossbow and his own bag, his brother glared at him. "I see you finally got that huntin' dog you always wanted. I tell you what, keep that flea-ridden mongrel off the furniture I won't even eat it if'n I get hungry."

More big talk to cover the fact that Merle was a soft touch for animals. Not that the younger Dixon would let him get away with it. The hunter taunted back, "You keep that up and we won't share our catch with you." The soldier grouched back, but nothing loud enough to press him into answering in turn.

Their father would have never allowed it. He hadn't been born yet, when his older brother had brought an old blind dog home just for it to be shot behind the trailer. Good ol'Dad had drowned a bag of kittens once when Daryl was a toddler. He hadn't even brought them home; he'd found them on a trip to the liquor store in an alley. Mr. Dixon went out of his way to bag them up and toss them off a bridge.

It'd torn his baby heart up good, witnessing that. He still hadn't gone the way Merle had: acting like he'd rather spit on all the fuzzy creatures than coo over them. Daryl took the other direction by almost single-handedly keeping wildlife vets in business, bringing them a variety of injured baby animals. But even though the archer had never kept a pet due to the subconscious fear his daddy put in him, he'd never lost that urge to care for something. Animals were easier to love and be loved by than people.

Locking up the truck, they followed the troop around the lobby and into the back of the Holiday Inn. Shane possessed a key card and held open the first door, letting Lori and Carl through. _Like Hell I'm gonna bunk with them._

For the second room Morgan and Carol already claimed the beds to share with their children. That left the last two to divide between the less nuclear family type groups. Jacqui joined the blond sisters so the archer went for the last room. Merle snatched a key from Morgan on the way, opening it up and stepping through before his brother to pick a bed first. Daryl ignored it, shushing the pup in his arms before setting his stuff on the lone table. He was shocked still when Glenn and T-Dog followed him in.

"So you're really going to keep it?" the Korean asked sceptically. "It seems like it'd be a lot of work right now…" Daryl gave him the stink eye and younger guy raised his arms in surrender, "I like dogs. I like them just fine. But most of them bark a lot and that one looks..."

"Abused," Merle bluntly stated from where he was stretched out across a Queen-sized bed. The hunter ducked his head, focused on the shaking, whimpering bundle in his arms instead. He sat in the dining chair and tried to get comfortable with a bag of bones on his junk. He didn't know what to say to that. Sure, it was a risk and it was work. But Rick had kept the horse. Horses and dogs were useful animals. They'd never have something worth having if they were afraid of a little work, to take a few risks.

"Think of a name yet?" T-Dog asked to distract them. He shook his head then bit his lip consideringly. It hadn't even crossed his mind, and who knew what color the dog was when clean or how it'd behave once it calmed down.

Daryl decided, "I'll name him when I know 'im."

A knock on the door interrupted any further questioning to his relief. Glenn popped up off a bed and opened it to reveal Rick. _Think of the devil..._ The man was carrying a hefty black bag already open, and raised one eyebrow at the young man in front of him, "Next time at least check the peephole, okay?" Glenn blushed and huffed a sheepish laugh. The cowboy shook his head, "Even walkers can knock so check the peephole first. This here is all the soaps and things we've collected. Now the water ain't hot, but we can still get clean in a proper bathroom."

Daryl scowled in confusion, but was quickly outdone by his brother who raised a dismissive lip at the supplies. "You runnin' a beauty parlor outta that RV?"

Their dark skinned roommate was already welcoming himself to a bar of soap, choosing one by scent, and still asked, "Not that I'm complainin', but isn't this kind of extravagant these days?"

Their provider shrugged, a casual air about him as he let Glenn collect a couple bottles. Daryl had no clue why a man would need three soaps to wash with. Rick answered, "It's a morale booster." When he only received puzzle expressions, he added, "When people get clean, they feel better 'bout themselves. Some kinda medical fact. Read it on a brochure."

Glenn, T-Dog and Daryl snorted in amusement, each picturing a scenario where amnesiac-Rick would stumble across such a thing. Blue eyes caught his brother's rolling in return, but the soldier seemed to agree with the idea because he stepped up to collect a plain bar of soap. Daryl found himself joining them, cradling the dog once more though it seemed to have quieted a bit while the men spoke.

That got Merle's attention right quick, "Woah there, baby brother! Since when do you take a dunk in water not a crick? And voluntarily too?"

Feeling his cheeks flush, the archer used his one free hand to flash a middle finger at the asshole. "Man, shut up. I'm washin' the damn dog." He started to turn the various bottles this way and that, uncertain of what he should take for the task.

Glenn lead the group charge in making a sound or facial expression of their mutual disgust of the dog's coat. Daryl scowled back at the other three men, but couldn't speak quickly enough before the Korean said, "Then you can go last, dude." The boy then immediately shot for the shower, just managing to slip by Merle who noticed moments too late what he was up to.

"Damn it, kid!" Merle almost shouted, "I take five minutes, who knows how long you gonna take for all your damn soaps!"

The soldier flopped over into the second bed with a mean sounding grumble, mimicking T-Dog who had already settled down to wait. Daryl was starting to get anxious, he had no idea what he was looking for when he claimed to be washing the dog. Still, the amnesiac stood there patiently holding the bag open. But he didn't know which soaps would be alright for the poor pup's abused skin. Human medicated shampoo probably wouldn't do it any good. He bit his lip and peeked up at Rick, wondering if he was annoying the man with his indecision. But the cowboy only had eyes for the dog in his arms.

The pup had stopped stuffing its black muzzle into his throat and was watching Rick back with suspicion. The amnesiac's full lips twitched into a half smile before he suggested, "Think there's a kid's gentle shampoo in there. Probably be nice on him."

The hunter nodded and renewed his search, finding one quickly since kids products were about a quarter of the whole bag. With a muttered thanks, Daryl returned to his seat at the table. Skin and bones it may be, but it wasn't like carrying a crossbow around. Weapons didn't squirm when they were held. It was only after he looked up again to find the man staring at _him_ with that funny half-smile now that his nerves developed into embarrassment, causing his cheeks to flush. Internally cursing, Daryl avoided their leader's too blue gaze until the man bid them all good night and finally closed the door behind him.

 _Jesus, what was the guy staring at anyway?_ He wondered as he tucked the tan and black canine head under his chin and closer in general. Poor thing was shivering again. Daryl frowned and stared toward his brother, "Hey asshole."

How hilarious was it that _both_ Merle and T-Dog jerked to attention? The African American even looked pissed until he realized the Dixon brothers were talking. "Fuck off, Darleena."

"Throw me a blanket. You're laying on all of 'em," the hunter summoned, knowing his brother was going to cooperate even though he bitched through it all. Sure enough, the top bed coverlet was thrown at him, over half of the puffy fabric falling to the ground and the rest across his head.

Restraining the urge to violently yank the offending blanket into shape, Daryl sighed aggressively and started tugging it gently around the dog until it was mostly wrapped up. The puppy squirmed a bit, wiggling his side into the hunter's chest and pushing his head up into the man's adam's apple. Grunting in irritation at the uncooperative animal, the redneck slouched down in his chair, kicking the blanket away from tangling around his legs. Finally, the little terror settled down once he was fully resting across Daryl's broad chest.

The dog sighed in relief, like all his troubles were resolved by the Dixon's presence. The archer let his fingers absently pet that soft furred face, wondering if it could really be that easy. To be with people. It wasn't like the Dixon brothers weren't made for the End Days. They weren't too attached to any one home, past friends or memories. Both of them knew how to case a joint, break and enter, hotwire a car and take care of it mechanically. Even Merle could hunt and cook his own meals if he had to. Like the dog in his arms, they could survive alone if need be. But companionship…

Daryl passively listened to Glenn turning off the shower and Merle pushing his way into the bathroom while jeering at the Asian man for his _three soaps_ again. Other than the creak of the pipes, the soft press of boots to carpeted floors, there wasn't a sound to be heard. No hum of electricity, buzz of late night television or the ice machine down the way. No traffic coming or going despite it barely being after dark. Even their next door neighbors were quiet as church mice.

A smack against concrete echoed outside. All three men and one beast tensed in reaction. It kept going in a rhythmic beat until they each recognized it as the gait of a horse and let themselves relax. Curious, Daryl stood again, letting the blanket slide down, and carried his new burden to the window. He spared one hand to hold the cloth curtain back from a corner, catching the moonlight reflecting off the murky pool in the center of the courtyard.

The silhouette was distinct. From his Sheriff's hat to his hanging gun belt, Rick was a lean shadow in the semi-dark night leading a naked horse toward the pool gate. From his elbow hung a bucket for some reason. The cowboy tried a couple keys from a noisy ring and got it right on the second try. The iron door was rusty and creaked awfully, causing both horse and rider to move warily into the makeshift pen. Once they were both inside with no sign of malingering dead, Rick set down the bucket, took something out and stepped up to the horse. Daryl took a few seconds to recognize the motion since all he could see were shadows, but he was pretty sure the man was brushing down the horse in the dark.

 _Well…_ The hunter looked down at his new friend. Big brown eyes outlined in coal looked back at him trustingly. He supposed companions might be worth the trouble after all.


End file.
